


Where is My Mind?

by brookebond



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Hospitalisation, Imaginary Friends, M/M, Mental Illness, Slow Burn, Sort of major character death, Suicide Attempt, blue balls for the reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond
Summary: Arthur has always heard this voice. It started before he could talk. When he was a child, it was cute to have a friend no one else could see.He was told he'd grow out of it.





	1. Five Years Old

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to pinkys_creature_feature and jambees221b for joining me on this ride from the very beginning. They've been suffering through each little update I've made and have cheered me on.  
> This fic would be nothing without them.
> 
> Thank you iamanonniemouse for betaing! You're so wonderful!
> 
> The title is from The Pixies song.

Eames stood next to him, almost brushing his shoulder. He was happy he wouldn’t have to do it alone, wouldn’t have to be left with a group of strangers who were all looking at him like he had something on his face.

“Arthur, sweetie, I have to go now, okay?” his mom asked, her eyes a little sad.

Arthur nodded. He would be fine, he had Eames. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do without his best friend at his side. His mommy knew that.

She gave him a quick kiss on his head and a hug then left him.

Arthur watched her go, giving her a smile full of dimples as she turned back to look at him one last time.

“Have you seen that one?” Eames asked, pointing at a small girl with pigtails.

Arthur looked at her, head tilted to one side. The girl was playing dolls with another girl that had bangs. Arthur wanted to ask why Eames was pointing out the girls but he knew he couldn’t. Not when strangers were around.

His parents had told him that now that he was going to school, Arthur had to be a big boy and leave Eames at home. But Eames had followed him, even after Arthur had told him he had to stay behind. Eames wasn’t a very good listener.

“I reckon you could take that one,” Eames said, proudly pointing at what looked like the biggest boy in the class.

Arthur grinned at Eames. They both knew that Arthur wouldn’t be able to fight a kid that was twice his size. Arthur wasn’t stupid. But it was still fun to joke about it.

A hand waved in front of his face, dragging Arthur’s gaze from his best friend. He looked up to find a very unimpressed old lady looking down at him.

“Oh, she looks like fun,” Eames pouted.

Arthur giggled, his face scrunching up, dimples bringing a smile to Eames’ face.

The lady snapped her fingers in Arthur’s face. “Arthur, are you listening to me?”

Arthur frowned up at her.

“You’ve got to wake up, Arthur,” she huffed and ushered him to join the rest of the class on the floor.


	2. Seven Years Old

Arthur sat on his bed, hand holding a bag of frozen peas to his face. His dad was standing at the door, saying something about how Arthur had to be more careful about who he pissed off, but Arthur wasn’t really listening. He was watching Eames stand next to his father, imitating the cross face and angry gestures. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to laugh while his dad was still there.

“You’ve got to wake up, Arthur,” his dad sighed. “This isn’t a joke.”

Eames rolled his eyes and poked his tongue at the door as Arthur’s dad closed it behind him. “Well that was a waste of time,” Eames announced.

Arthur hummed and flopped back on his bed, keeping the bag of peas pressed to his eye. It was aching, a deep throbbing pain that was giving him a headache. His mom had said something about making sure he didn’t keep the peas on his face for too long, but Arthur had lost track of time while his dad had been lecturing him.

It wasn’t like the fight was really his fault. Eric was making fun of Eames and, okay, Arthur had thrown the first punch, even if Eames had told him not to worry about it. Arthur wasn’t going to back down when someone was insulting his friend. Plus Arthur had wanted to punch Eric for months.

“He had it coming,” Eames said, his voice closer than it had been before.

Arthur turned his head to the side, watching as Eames climbed onto the bed to lie down next to him. “He did,” Arthur agreed.

“Too bad you weren’t fast enough to get away.”

“It’s kinda hard when you get tackled and pinned to the ground.”

They both sighed, silently agreeing.

Arthur was great at starting fights, he was notorious at the school for being the one kid that had picked a fight with everyone. He just wasn’t so good at the follow-through. He’d come home with bruises and black eyes more times than he could count.

“You should ask for karate lessons,” Eames said, excited.

“Karate?” Arthur asked, raising his brows and wincing as his tender flesh strained. It wasn’t the worst idea Eames had ever come up with but he wasn’t sure how he could convince his parents to agree. He started enough fights as it was—he couldn’t imagine how unhappy they would be if he started winning them.

“Jujitsu?” Eames suggested.

Arthur laughed, a short little thing. “Karate,” he said. “You made that other word up.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“You’re just uncultured,” Eames huffed.

Arthur looked over at his friend, smiling softly at his pout. It was stupid, really, to like the way Eames’ lips looked when he pouted like he did—and he pouted often—but Arthur couldn’t help it. Eames had pretty lips, not that Arthur was ever going to admit that to him.

“I don’t want to be beaten up again,” he said, trying to ignore the funny feelings coursing through him.

“We’ll practice together.”

Eames smiled down at him and Arthur’s insides did a funny twisting thing but he smiled back and nodded. He could do anything if Eames was with him.


	3. Twelve Years Old

“You can’t do it,” Eames mocked. “You  _ won’t _ .”

Arthur crossed his arms, glaring at his friend. He was sick of being told he couldn’t do things, that he wouldn’t do them. It was all he heard. His parents were constantly telling him he couldn’t go out to play with Eames, that he couldn’t continue his karate lessons, that he couldn’t be in his bedroom with the door closed. Enough was enough.

“Watch me,” Arthur snarled and grabbed the game case off the shelf, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket and walking to the exit.

He almost made it outside when a hand grabbed his jacket collar, hauling him back. Arthur flailed, limbs flying out as he tried to get his bearings back.

“What the hell?” he yelled, the protest dying in his throat the moment his eyes landed on a security guard.

“You’ve done it now, Arthur,” Eames said unhelpfully.

Arthur glared at his friend. It was his fault he was in that situation anyway and he was fuming that he couldn’t yell at Eames. The security guard was already looking at him like he was insane. Maybe he was? Arthur was twelve and his only friend was a figment of his own imagination.

“Come with me, young man,” the guard said, turning on his heel and guiding Arthur through a door and several twisty hallways.

Arthur was lost by the time he was ushered into a small room with a single desk and two chairs. He’d seen things like this before in the movies. Bad guys were always taken there to be asked questions. Arthur shot a look over his shoulder at Eames, suddenly desperately not wanting to be there.

“Don’t look at me,” Eames said with a shrug. He took a seat on the edge of the table, his legs swinging, feet skimming the floor with every pass.

“This is all your fault,” Arthur hissed.

“Did you say something?” the guard asked, a brow raised as he gestured for Arthur to take a seat.

Arthur shook his head, swallowing hard as he sat down, his gaze firmly on his lap.

“What’s your name?”

“Afur,” he mumbled.

“Speak up, boy,” the guard barked, startling Arthur.

His hands were clammy, his heart beating erratically in his chest as panic flooded through him. “Arthur Stone, sir.”

“Arthur Stone, sir,” Eames mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

Arthur glared at him from the corner of his eye. He had never been more grateful than right then that no one else could see Eames. That was the only saving grace from Eames acting like a real dick. He was going to make him pay later.

“Well, Arthur Stone,” the guard started, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on the table. “I believe you have property that belongs to the store.”

Arthur nodded slowly.

“Where is it?”

Arthur pulled the game from his pocket, setting the case on the table without once raising his gaze to the guard. He knew the look he would be getting, one that was a mix of anger and pity. No one would ever guess that Arthur had stolen something because he’d been goaded into it by a stupid British imaginary friend.

“Giving in so easily, Arthur?” Eames teased, hopping down from the table to circle around to the guard.

Arthur kept his gaze on his lap, or tried to at least. Eames was distracting at the best of times but Eames was pacing behind the guard, his chest puffed out in an imitation. It was hard, so hard to keep his face straight, to not giggle at the ridiculousness that was happening right behind the guard. Arthur knew that he would be in more trouble if he laughed. It would make him seem more deranged.

“I’ll have to call your parents,” the guard said, pushing his chair back to exit the room.

Arthur stood quickly, the chair crashing backwards in his haste. “No, please don’t,” Arthur begged. He didn’t want them involved, he didn’t want to have to explain anything to them. They wouldn’t understand.

“Sorry, but you’ve got to wake up, Arthur.” The guard gave him a final look before leaving, locking the door on his way out.

Arthur stared after him, half expecting the guard to walk back in, a grin on his face and a joking laugh. But the guard didn’t come back. Arthur was left alone—well Eames  _ was _ there—with his thoughts and they were horrible. Arthur could only imagine what the guard was telling his parents and his mind spiralled to the worst-case scenario. They were going to send him away to some camp to make him better. They were going to get rid of him because he was too much work.

Arthur walked to a corner of the room Eames wasn’t occupying and sat, his back pressed against both walls as he pulled his knees to his chest and rested his head against them. He felt horrible, absolutely terrible, and there wasn’t any way to fix it.

“Don’t, Arthur,” Eames sighed, coming to sit next to him.

“Shut up,” Arthur mumbled into his knees. “I’m not talking to you.”

“And what a lovely job you’re doing.”

Arthur huffed, hugging his knees tighter. He could freeze Eames out. Well, he’d never successfully done it before but Arthur was a firm believer that there was a first time for everything.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Eames said, his voice showing just the slightest hint of irritation.

‘ _ Good _ ,’ Arthur thought. He wanted Eames to be annoyed, wanted Eames to feel just a tiny bit of what Arthur was feeling. It wasn’t fair that he was going to be the only one getting punished.

The door opened suddenly, startling Arthur into the corner further.

The security guard led Arthur’s parents into the small room, all three of them looking at Arthur in the corner.

He stood, feeling self-conscious about being on the ground when there were two perfectly good chairs in the room.

“Arthur, sweetie, what happened?” his mom asked, coming over to him.

“Well, Eames said—”

“Don’t start,” his dad clipped out.

Arthur frowned, his eyes threatening to water. What was the point in asking him a question if they didn’t want to hear the answer?

“We’re going home.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we’ve still got some details to clear up,” the guard said, stepping front of Arthur’s dad to stop him.

“You have our number, what more could you possibly need right now?” his dad growled.

Arthur wasn’t looking forward to when they were alone. He didn’t need to look at Eames to know his friend had taken a step closer to him. Whenever Arthur’s dad got into a bad mood, Eames always stood closer to him as though Eames would be able to protect him somehow. Arthur ached to reach out and hold Eames’ hand. He wanted the reassurance that someone was on his side.

“We’ll be in touch,” the guard said with a sigh, stepping aside to let Arthur and his parents past.

They walked in silence to the car, Arthur’s mom just a few steps behind him while his dad led.

Arthur was uncomfortable. His skin itched with the weight of his parents’ disapproval and he just wished they’d get it over with. He knew something big was going to happen but he couldn’t predict what that would be and neither could Eames. Though Eames’ ideas varied in ridiculousness.

No one said a word during the whole drive home. Dinner was a silent affair and Arthur was sent to bed without a command being uttered.

In his room with Eames, Arthur thought about everything that had happened and the lack of response from his parents. It was confusing. Usually they would have blown up at him. It normally would have been an instant reaction but he hadn’t ever expected silence as his punishment. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad.

Eames reassured him, lying down on the bed next to Arthur as they both fell asleep.

—

Three days later, Arthur got a reaction that was far worse than he had expected.

His parents drove him to a facility. They said it was to help him with Eames. Arthur had thought they were finally coming on board and wanted to understand his connection with Eames better. He was wrong.

Arthur sat on a couch in a room that was filled with knick knacks and books with titles Arthur couldn’t understand.

A curly red-haired lady with huge green glasses sat opposite him, a notepad perched on her knee as she waited for Arthur to talk.

“It looks like she’s got more hair than head,” Eames commented and Arthur snorted, unable to contain his amusement.

“Interesting,” the lady muttered.

Arthur shot a worried look at Eames who just shrugged back at him.

“Arthur, do you know why you’re here?” she asked as she scribbled on the notepad.

Arthur shook his head.

“Your parents are worried about someone named,” she paused briefly looking at her notes, “Eames. Do you know who that is?”

Arthur’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard. He didn’t want to talk about Eames to a stranger. He wasn’t  _ allowed _ to talk about Eames to strangers.

“Eames is magnificent. Tell her I said that so she can write it down,” Eames said, pointing at the notepad.

Arthur didn’t dare look at his friend. His heart was pounding against his chest, his thoughts whirring as he realised his parents were trying to make him get rid of Eames. He was broken and they wanted to fix him. His eyes prickled with unshed tears but he wouldn’t give in. He wasn’t going to cry on some stranger’s couch. No. Arthur was going to be strong and Eames was going to help him. Parents and crazy red-haired ladies be damned.


	4. Sixteen Years Old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone that helped with this chapter.  
> It has been absolutely killing me. Pun not intended... Sorry.
> 
> This chapter will delve into the attempted suicide and hospitalisation.  
> If that worries you, I'm very sorry. This chapter is vital.

Arthur sat, hands tucked under his thighs as he stared at the therapist. They were at an impasse. The guy was the thirteenth therapist he had been to since he was twelve—Arthur kept a list on his bedroom wall to keep track—and no one had ever managed to make a dent in his psyche; not from a lack of trying. Arthur had to give them props for how determined they all seemed to be, but each and every one of them had come to the same conclusion: Arthur was a lost cause.

“You think he talks just to hear his own voice?” Eames asked, hovering over the therapist’s shoulder.

Arthur smirked—a small twitch of the lips—but Eames caught it and flashed a wide grin at him. It was fun when it was just the two of them, more fun than Arthur had with anyone else. But allowing himself to enjoy anything Eames said while other people were in the room was just asking for trouble and Arthur was smart enough to know that he didn’t want that.

It had taken a long time to gain control over his responses when Eames said or did something amusing. But Arthur had almost perfected it, almost.

“Is something funny, Arthur?” the therapist asked.

Arthur had made it a point to not learn their names. He was never in their care long enough for it to be worth the time. “Not at all,” he replied with a shrug.

“Is Eames here?”

“Oh an original question,” Eames said as he leant against the wall behind the therapist.

Arthur was grateful that Eames was now in a position that made it look as though Arthur was actually looking at the therapist instead of his imaginary friend.

“Maybe he got his doctorate off the back of a cereal box.”

Arthur sucked his lower lip into his mouth, biting it so he wouldn’t be tempted to respond.

“Arthur, I understand that you don’t want to be here. But really, this is just a waste of your parents’ money—”

“Oh guilt. He’s just working off a list, isn’t he?”

“You won’t make any progress if you don’t start talking to me.”

Arthur slumped back into the couch. “I’ve heard it all before.”

“Don’t you want to get better?”

That got his attention. “Better?” he scoffed. “What makes you think I’m not perfectly fine? All you have is my parents’ word that there’s something  _ wrong _ with me. They don’t know a thing about me and neither do you. So how about you stop trying and just let me fucking live my life?”

“You’ve got to wake up, Arthur. This isn’t a game. Your parents are genuinely worried about you. Don’t you care about that at all?” the therapist asked, his face lit up like fucking Christmas. Arthur was giving him exactly what he wanted—a response.

“You could always just up and leave,” Eames suggested, pushing off the wall so he stood directly behind the therapist, looking at Arthur over the guy’s balding head.

Arthur shook his head, an answer to both the therapist and Eames. What was it going to take to get everyone to leave him alone?

“Is the time up yet?”

“We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the therapist, debating the merits of throwing something at the guy’s ridiculous head. He had a combover, one that was so blatantly obvious Arthur had to wonder why he even bothered pretending. He was surprised the guy didn’t have a toupée since he was clearly so worried about his appearance. He’d had to ignore many of Eames’ comments about the hair. While he was all for belittling someone’s competence, Arthur was never outright rude, no matter how much Eames tried to push him to be.

“Can you tell me something about Eames that no one else knows?”

“Oh, I’m a Sagittarius, tell him that,” Eames chimed in excitedly. “Or maybe that I like long walks on the beach.”

Arthur clenched his hands, pressing them into the couch as he tried to ignore Eames.

“Is he here now?”

“Yes and I’m looking at your rather atrocious hair. D’you think he’s ever considered just shaving it all off?”

Arthur looked out the window, determined to get through the session without giving the therapist any more ammo.

“Do you ever talk about him to other people?”

“No. Really, you’d think he was ashamed of me,” Eames said wistfully.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and took deep breaths.

“Does he tell you to do things?”

“Yes,” Eames said with a sigh. “And he never bloody listens. I mean, really, every idea I come up with is bloody genius and Arthur’s never once admitted it.”

“Shut up,” Arthur fumed, his eyes flying open as he stood from the couch, chest heaving. He glared at Eames, fists clenched tightly at his sides. It was enough that he had to listen to the therapist, he couldn’t take Eames’ stupid comments on top of it all.

“What are you looking at, Arthur?”

Arthur stared at Eames, watching his face shift from amused to uncomfortable. “Nothing,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”

“Right,” the therapist said, his pen scratching away against paper. “I think we’re done for today.”

—

“That was a fucking disaster, you realise that, right?” Eames asked when they were alone in Arthur’s bedroom, music blaring to cover Arthur’s voice.

It had been something Arthur had started doing after the first therapist hadn’t worked out. The loud music made it easier to hide that he was talking to himself. He had just started playing up the angsty teenager routine for his parents.

“Who’s fault is that?” Arthur shot at Eames, watching his friend make himself comfortable on the bed.

“I didn’t make you yell.”

“You never shut up.”

“I do.” Arthur glared at Eames until he added, “sometimes.”

“Think you could shut up now?”

“What’s in it for me?” Eames asked, sitting up, suddenly interested in whatever game he thought they were playing.

“Forget it,” Arthur huffed and walked to the bathroom connected to his bedroom, stripping as he went. A shower would make him feel better, make him feel more like himself.

He got all of two minutes in the shower alone before Eames popped his head into the stall.

“Want some company?” Eames asked with a leer.

Arthur sighed and shook his head. He shouldn’t like that face, shouldn’t get butterflies whenever Eames said something suggestive like that to him. There wasn’t anything that could happen between them. Besides, Eames was just playing. He had no idea what those words did to Arthur. Arthur had never let him see those particular feelings. It felt wrong to hide things from his best friend, but really, what good was it going to do to reveal those to Eames? They couldn’t act on anything and he was pretty sure Eames wouldn’t want to if they could.

“Can’t I have five minutes alone?”

“Now why would you want that?” Eames asked, climbing into the shower along with Arthur.

“This really isn’t built for two people,” Arthur complained, huddling into a corner to get away from Eames. His dick twitched, interested that Eames was so close to him while he was naked.

“Good thing I’m not real then,” Eames said with a wink. “Please, carry on.”

“Go away.”

“Spoilsport,” Eames huffed and climbed out of the shower, leaving Arthur alone with a half hard dick.

“Traitor,” his whispered to himself and turned the shower cold, shivering as the icy water hit his back. At least it was better than jerking off to his imaginary friend.

Arthur managed to shower in peace, turning the water back to warm for a few minutes before climbing out, feeling clean but not so refreshed. The session with the therapist was still playing on his mind. He couldn’t figure out if he’d been made or not and that was bugging Arthur, tugging at the back of his mind that he had to be extra careful for the next few months. No accidental slip ups. He couldn’t risk it.

“Oh fuck me,” Arthur blurted out, turning around and closing his eyes. “Are you honestly doing that on my bed?”

Eames sighed—moaned would be a more appropriate word—and the sound of a hand sliding over hard flesh was far too audible for Arthur’s liking. “Well, I had wanted to do it in the shower but I got kicked out. Care to join me?”

“Eames, can’t you do that somewhere else?” Arthur asked, trying to ignore that Eames had just asked Arthur to join him in a mutual wank session.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

Arthur turned around cautiously at the breathlessness of Eames’ words. He found Eames staring at him, teeth digging into that full lower lip. It was too much. His wet dream was literally on his bed in front of him. How was he supposed to resist?

Arthur dropped the towel to the floor and climbed onto the bed next to Eames.

When Arthur settled, Eames rolled onto his side, hand slowing as he watched Arthur.

Suddenly Arthur felt shy. It wasn’t as though there was anything to be embarrassed about. Arthur knew Eames wasn’t going to make fun of him, especially since Eames was the one that had initiated everything. But Arthur was hesitant. Was there something wrong with him if he jerked himself off next to his imaginary friend?

“Would you stop thinking so much?” Eames teased and started moving his hand again.

Arthur watched, mesmerised by the action.

“Anytime you want to join in.”

“Shut up,” Arthur huffed and reached for his own erection. He desperately wished he could feel Eames, could touch that straining cock for real, but he settled for watching as Eames’ hand sped up.

The sound of flesh moving over flesh filled the room along with their moans. It was quite possibly the hottest thing Arthur had ever been a part of and he tried not to think too much about the fact that it was all in his head, that Eames was a creation of his overactive imagination. Instead, he let himself enjoy the build-up, enjoy watching his crush bring himself to completion with Arthur’s name on his lips.

Arthur spilled over the comforter seconds after Eames with a groan of his own. He barely managed to hold Eames’ name back, but Eames still smirked at him like he’d said it.

“Shut up,” Arthur huffed and flopped onto his back, sleepy and sated.

—

“This is a fucking mess,” Arthur muttered to himself as he shoved stacks of paper to the side, trying to get a clear spot to do some work.

When had his desk turned into a disaster zone?

Arthur was always tidy. He never let his space get into complete disarray. If he didn’t know better, Arthur would have said someone had been at his desk. Obviously, he did know better. His parents never went into his room and Eames couldn’t touch anything. So Arthur was the only one to blame and now he was suffering the consequences.

“Do you plan on being over there all day?” Eames asked, drawing Arthur’s gaze long enough to see his friend lounging on the bed with no shirt on.

Arthur flushed as he remembered the night before and turned away before Eames could notice. While it had been fun letting himself have that moment of weakness, Arthur was determined to not give in again. There was no future for a relationship of that sort with Eames. It was physically impossible.

“Nothing better to do,” he muttered and started opening drawers to shove some of the papers into. At least if they were off the desk, he was less likely to think about them.

“I can think of a plethora of other things we could be doing,” Eames said suggestively.

Arthur ignored him in favour of slamming a drawer shut. It was unfair that Eames knew about his feelings and was determined to use them against him. It wasn’t fair that Arthur was going to let him do it. Maybe Arthur was a masochist. It wouldn’t surprise him considering everything else that seemed to be wrong with him.

“Come on, Arthur. Can’t we go somewhere else?” Eames complained, his voice closer than it had been before.

Arthur continued to ignore him, sliding some smaller objects into the top drawer. There were things he had forgotten he owned—eight bottle caps, three bookmarks, a poker chip, and a red die. Arthur picked the red die up before it dropped into the drawer, turning it over between his fingers. Something prickled in the back of his mind as he looked at the unassuming object.

“What have you got there?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said, unable to take his eyes off the die.

“Looks like something.”

“What’s it to you?” Arthur asked, something in Eames’ tone drawing his gaze from the die. He turned in his chair, jerking back when he found Eames hovering over his shoulder.

“It’s nothing to me,” Eames said, a strained smile pulling at his lips as he leaned back from Arthur, hands slipping into his pockets.

“You’re as subtle as a brick to the face, Eames. What is it?” Arthur shoved the die into Eames’ face, watching closely for any changes that would give his friend away. He wasn’t sure what he thought he would find but Arthur hated secrets. Especially when they involved his closest friend.

“Looks like a die.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes and turned in his chair, tossing the die into the drawer with the rest of the knick-knacks that had littered his desk.

It was finally looking much tidier, more like something Arthur would be proud to have in his room. But Eames still hovered near him, watching like he was waiting for something. It made Arthur nervous, like he was hiding something. Though Arthur knew  _ he _ wasn’t hiding something. He had to assume that Eames was the one hiding something.

“Are you going to stand there all day or what?”

“You’ve got to wake up, Arthur,” Eames sighed, his voice hinting at a deeper sadness Arthur had never heard before.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. This isn’t a dream,” Arthur said, shooting a look at his friend. Eames’ face stopped him from saying something more, suddenly unsure what he’d said wrong. Had he actually managed to hurt Eames’ feelings somehow?

Eames smiled at him, a small thing but it eased something inside Arthur’s chest.

“Why don’t you just get back on the bed and pretend you aren’t trying to seduce me,” Arthur said, trying for levity and wondering if he fell massively short of it.

Eames nodded and turned around, walking back to the bed. During the short walk, Arthur could have sworn Eames muttered, “I love you, darling, but fuck are you stubborn.”

—

“Arthur, sweetheart, can you come in here?”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Eames said, stopping next to Arthur.

Arthur had just gotten home from school and all he wanted to do was collapse onto his bed as he tried to forget about the things Jenny Mitchell had said. He could only be called queer so many times before he gave in and punched a girl. Not that he’d actually hit her. Not really. Arthur had just threatened, fists clenched at his sides. Maybe the school had called home already. That would be the icing on the crappy cake of his day.

“Sure,” he mumbled, flashing a look at Eames—who just shrugged—and walked into the living room.

Both of his parents were sitting on the couch, looking at him enter. That alone was enough to make his stomach drop.

“Oh, both of them. This is gonna be good,” Eames chirped and threw himself onto the couch Arthur’s parents weren’t sitting on.

Arthur desperately wished he could hit Eames.

“We’ve been talking to Dr Jones and he’s suggested that you might need a bit more help than he’s able to provide,” his father said. There wasn’t a smile on his face. There wasn’t really any hint of emotion on his face at all and Arthur’s mother sat staring at her hands. That wasn’t a good sign.

Arthur swallowed hard and settled onto the couch as Eames sat up, suddenly very interested in what was going on. “What do you mean?”

“He has recommended a facility where they’re more qualified to deal with your needs,” his father continued, voice toneless as though he was talking about the weather with a colleague.

“My needs?” Arthur asked, failing to follow their train of thought.

“If only they knew about your needs,” Eames muttered teasingly.

“You’d only be there for a week or so, just so you could be observed closer.”

“Why do I need to be observed?” A hollow feeling was starting to spread through his chest. The therapist had told his parents about his outburst during their last session, about how Arthur hadn’t been looking at him.

“Sweetheart, we know you still see Eames. This is our only choice,” his mother finally added.

“You want to put me in some facility so they can drug me and you won’t have to worry about me anymore,” Arthur stated, staring at his parents. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“There is no need for that kind of language,” his father bristled.

“Like hell there isn’t. You want to put me in an institution,” Arthur yelled. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that his parents wanted to get rid of him, sweep him under the rug.

“It’s not like that, Arthur,” his mother said placidly.

“What’s it like then?” he asked, turning on her.

“We’re just trying to help,” his father said, bringing Arthur’s attention back to him.

Arthur wanted to yell more, wanted to curse, wanted to throw something, wanted to punch a hole in the wall. This was their great plan? To stick him in an institution and forget about him? That was a great feeling, knowing that his own parents could turn on their own flesh and blood like this.

“If you stopped trying, maybe I’d be better,” Arthur bit out and left the living room, hands curled into fists. He stomped up the stairs, his skin itching with a desire to damage something, to hurt someone.

Arthur slammed his door shut and turned the stereo up until he could feel the bass thrumming in his chest. He stood in the centre of his room, thumb rubbing against his forefinger as he tried to ease his nerves. If he was calm, maybe things wouldn’t seem so bad. Arthur snorted and shook his head. It was all bullshit.

“This is all your fault,” Arthur hissed, pointing an accusing finger at Eames. “If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be insane and my parents wouldn’t be trying to send me away.” His chest ached violently at the thought.

Eames was as much a part of him as his fingers and toes. Arthur couldn’t imagine a life without Eames,  _ didn’t _ want to imagine that life. The void that would be left behind would be unbearable. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay, Arthur. They can’t do anything,” Eames finally said. Somehow he was calm. Somehow he wasn’t bothered by what had just happened.

Arthur paced, dragging his fingers through his hair. “They can do  _ everything _ , Eames. I’m a minor.” That was the real problem. No matter what Arthur wanted, no matter how hard he tried to make his parents understand, they still had the final say. They were going to listen to that fucking idiot of a therapist and medicate him purely to get rid of an imaginary person that didn’t affect them at all. He was so fucked.

Their expectations were a burden, drowning him with unrealistic goals he couldn’t meet. They suffocated him, buried him deep under ideals that left him broken and hopeless.

What was he supposed to do?

There had to be a way to gain control again, a way to take back his life. He had tried playing their games, desperate to no longer hear how disappointing he was. Arthur had tried pretending that Eames didn’t exist and it had torn him up inside. He had done everything he thought his parents wanted and still it wasn’t enough.

Arthur gripped at his hair, his mind hopping from thought to thought, not giving anything a moment to catch. But one thought lingered, returning repeatedly: a release from the turmoil.

“Think about it. What’s the worst that could happen?” Eames asked, breaking through Arthur’s wild thoughts.

“They could make you go away,” Arthur choked out, his eyes prickling as he looked over at his best friend. Arthur really looked at him, took in the fine details he’d been glossing over for years. He’d never let himself look too closely at Eames, at the freckles dusting his nose, the constantly changing blue eyes, the full lips. Acknowledging his feelings was a terrifying prospect. Eames was nothing more than a figment of his imagination and Arthur knew that far too well.

“Nothing can make me go away, Arthur. We’ll be together forever.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

Eames stepped into Arthur’s personal space. “I am never leaving you.”

Arthur blinked, stunned at the words. He wanted to believe Eames, wanted to trust that it was the truth. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let himself hope that Eames was never going anywhere, even if they couldn’t be more than friends to one another.

With a small shake of his head, Arthur backed away from Eames and walked into the bathroom. He started rummaging in the drawers, tossing things out as he hunted.

“What are you doing?” Eames asked, following Arthur and watching over his shoulder as Arthur crouched, opening the cupboard beneath the sink.

“Looking for something.”

“Yes, I can see that. But what?”

Arthur stood, triumphant as he started breaking apart the disposable razor.

“What are you going to do with that?”

Arthur managed to snap the flimsy plastic and pulled one of the blades free, tossing the broken razor into the sink.

“You had better not be doing what I think you’re doing,” Eames said, stepping closer to Arthur.

It was clear Eames wished he could reach out and grab Arthur to stop him. But Arthur was grateful that no one would be able to stop him. He was going to fix the problem.

“Arthur, please.”

Arthur sat on the ground, crossing his legs and pressing his back against the cupboard. His gaze was firmly on the blade in his hand as he twirled it between his forefinger and thumb.

“This isn’t the answer.”

He stopped twirling the blade and ran a finger along it, testing the sharpness. When he pulled his finger away, there was a thin line of blood. At least he knew it wasn’t going to be a slow process.

“Look at me, Arthur.”

He did, finally noticing that Eames was sitting on the floor in front of him, hands hovering uselessly as he tried to stop Arthur.

Arthur sighed, eyes softening as he allowed himself this final opportunity to look at Eames without fear. The only regrets Arthur had were that he would never know what Eames felt like, what Eames would look like as they grew older. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t mind.

“Please, don’t,” Eames begged, eyes watering.

Arthur tilted his head. He hadn’t noticed the tears before and his heart hurt looking at them. The entire sixteen years that he’d had Eames by his side, Eames had never cried, not once. But there he was, tears threatening to spill over his cheeks because of what Arthur was planning to do.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispered and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at Eames as he slid the blade over his wrist.

The stinging pain was a welcome release from the overwhelming emotions coursing through him. He finally felt in control of himself, in control of  _ everything _ even as the blade slipped from his fingers.

Arthur opened his eyes, smiling weakly at Eames who was leaning over him, hands fluttering as he cursed and muttered at Arthur.

“Arthur, please.”

Arthur sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself slip away.

—

_ “Do you think he’ll ever wake up?” _

_ “There’s only so much I can do.” _

_ “He’ll wake up, just be patient.” _

 

Arthur was aware of the voices before his eyes opened but when he finally saw the room, he wondered who had been talking. Both of his parents were asleep and Eames was lying in the bed next to him, watching.

Eames smiled, a huge thing when Arthur’s eyes landed on him. “You’re awake.”

Arthur sighed and turned away. He was tired, exhausted, and apparently he hadn’t succeeded. Why was everything so difficult? Why couldn’t he just manage to get this one thing right?

“I’ve been here for hours without anything to do,” Eames complained, suddenly on Arthur’s bed.

A beeping filled the space between Eames’ chatter and Arthur focused on it, hoping that the steady rhythm would help him fall back to sleep. It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid Eames, well, not entirely. Arthur just couldn’t look at him, couldn’t be reminded of what was wrong with him.

“Arthur, talk to me.”

He shifted his hands, the bandage covering his left arm rubbing uncomfortably against the stiff sheet tucked over him. Arthur opened his eyes and looked down at the thick white cloth. A tear rolled down his cheek, the hollow ache from before returning. The only thing Arthur had let himself truly want and he didn’t get it. Another tear joined the other as he took a shuddering breath.

“You won’t do this again, will you, Arthur?” Eames asked, his voice soft but loud enough to draw Arthur’s gaze.

There was an odd look on Eames’ face, the same one that had been there on the bathroom floor. It was as though Arthur had purposefully hurt Eames. Maybe that was all Arthur was to him, just the person who had to stay alive so he could as well.

Arthur sighed and turned his head away from Eames, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep.

—

If the peroxide blonde woman didn’t shut her mouth, Arthur was pretty sure he was going to stick his head through the nearest wall. It wasn’t so much what she was saying that was pissing him off, it was more the tone she was using.

He understood that he’d tried to kill himself, fuck, Arthur knew better than anyone else that he’d tried. But the condescending tone was starting to grate against him and he knew there wasn’t any way to make her stop. He was at their whims, stuck under watch for the next 72 hours. It had been suggested by the doctor—then agreed by his parents—because they wanted to make sure he wasn’t a danger anymore.

Arthur was pretty sure he was going to be a danger for life.

“Breakfast is at seven sharp, group sessions are at eight,” the woman said, her tone changing from condescending to authoritarian. Arthur wasn’t sure which he hated more. “One-on-one sessions with a therapist will follow and lunch is at midday.” She was pulling trays out from places Arthur hadn’t noticed and setting them on the table in front of her as she continued talking. “Leisure groups follow lunch. Dinner is at five and lights out at eight. Anything you aren’t following so far, sweetie?”

Arthur swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing a little at the ‘sweetie’. “No,” he clipped.

“Is she ever going to shut up?” Eames asked, his voice coming from somewhere behind Arthur.

Arthur hadn’t bothered to track where Eames was. Since he’d woken up in the hospital, Arthur hadn’t spoken a single word to Eames. He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle Eames. It had taken every ounce of willpower Arthur had not to look at Eames. He’d spent sixteen years looking at Eames whenever he wanted and now, now that he was actively trying not to, Arthur found himself wanting to look forever. He wanted to be allowed to look at Eames, get his fill of his friend, but that was what was making things worse for him. His need for Eames.

“Meds will be administered at the nurses station. Don’t worry, we’ll remind you when it’s time,” she said with a smile. “Right, let’s get you sorted for your stay. Shoes off, personal items into this container here, please,” she said, pointing at the box to her right.

Arthur took a deep, calming breath, centreing himself before complying. He toed off his shoes and placed them in the box to the nurse’s left which earned him a smile. God, he was going to get sick of that.

“She must’ve gone to some sort of class for that look,” Eames offered, still standing somewhere behind Arthur.

Instead of responding, Arthur emptied his pockets into the box to the nurse’s right. He didn’t have much on him; a few coins, pieces of lint, a folded up piece of paper, and a packet of gum—when had he gotten that?

“That everything?”

Arthur nodded at the nurse and internally cringed at the smile she flashed at him. If everyone in this place was like that, he really was going to stick his head through a wall. It might not be a bad idea actually. Maybe that would make everything end. If he did enough damage, he might not see Eames anymore. Sure, he probably wouldn’t be able to feed himself either but he probably wouldn’t care that he felt the strongest connection to a person that didn’t exist.

“One last thing before you’re all done.” She pulled a hand held metal detector and gestured for him to stand.

Arthur really didn’t think things could get more degrading than they were as he stood, holding his arms out while she waved the detector over his body. Like he was going to have anything on him? He’d been in the hospital and hadn’t been allowed home to collect any of his things.

“Right then, that looks good,” she said, putting the detector on the table. “These are the things your parents have supplied. Three changes of clothes.” As she spoke, she set a pile of clothes on the table next to the boxes he had just put his things into.

He hadn’t even realised his parents had been by. When had they had the time to go to the psych ward? He hadn’t even noticed.

The nurse handed over a pair of sandals and Arthur took them with a weary glance at the blue rubber. He wasn’t exactly the most fashionable person but even Arthur had standards. Sandals and socks? Who the hell did these people think they were?

“It’s a good look,” Eames cheerfully added, still standing somewhere behind Arthur.

Even though Arthur was determined to not look for Eames, he was still far too aware of where his imaginary friend was. Maybe that was partly because of their connection and that Eames was a part of his mind, but Arthur was determined to ignore Eames. He wanted to be better.

“You grab those and we’ll get you situated in your room.”

Arthur dropped the sandals onto the floor and slipped his feet into them before standing and grabbing his clothes off the table. They were all soft, plain things with no strings. He didn’t remember owning any of them before so he had to assume his parents had just gone out and bought new things. At least that was something; they could have just left Arthur with whatever the hospital provided.

The ward was basically as Arthur had imagined it would be—all white walls, strong strangely clean smell permeating the air, silent—and he didn’t like it. He felt off, felt strange being there. He felt worse than he had at home and that was saying something.

“You aren’t here to be observed for your whole stay. It’s important that we keep your door open, just in case something happens, but you’re free to roam when it’s leisure time. We aren’t a prison,” she said the last bit with a small laugh but Arthur didn’t join in. There really wasn’t anything funny about being in a psych ward. He couldn’t wait for the kids at school to hear about it.

“Interesting sense of humour this one has, I like her,” Eames said, his voice letting Arthur know Eames was just behind his right shoulder.

Arthur fought the urge to shiver as he became startlingly aware of where Eames was. It wasn’t fair. It was making it worse. Ignoring Eames was just resulting in Arthur being hyper aware of where his friend was at all times which was ten times worse than just acknowledging him.

He shot a look over his shoulder, trying to pass it off as just getting a good look at the ward—he was pretty sure the nurse wasn’t fooled. Eames grinned at him, making Arthur miss a step and almost sprawl on the floor. How many days had it been since he’d seen Eames smile? Since he’d let himself have the luxury of looking at his friend? An ache in his chest eased a little as he turned back to face forwards, his lips begging to form a smile.

Arthur managed to keep it together for the walk to his room, following the nurse without uttering a word even though Eames had taken Arthur looking at him as a sign to start chatting about anything and everything. Mostly Eames kept to comments about the ward and other patients. Arthur was waiting for the moment he could lay into Eames for being so rude about the people that were stuck there like he was. No one chose to be in a place like that.

“This is you,” the nurse said, indicating a small room the had only one bed in it. “Lucky you, you seem to have a single. No sharing.” She smiled conspiratorially at him.

Arthur felt like smiling back, actually genuinely felt like returning the gesture, but he stopped himself. He didn’t want anyone to think that he was going to be comfortable there or that he liked anything that was happening to him. He had begged his parents to just let him go home, to let him show them that he wasn’t going to do it again. But they were too scared, especially after that stupid doctor had offered up his opinion on Arthur’s state of mind.

“You get comfortable, someone will come by to check on you in twenty minutes.” The nurse left with a parting smile, leaving Arthur alone with Eames for the first time in days.

Arthur set the pile of clothes on the end of the bed and sat down, dropping his head into his hands.

“Come on,” Eames said, taking a seat next to Arthur. “Things aren’t that bad.”

“I’m in a psych ward,” Arthur hissed. “Please tell me how things could be worse.”

“You could be dead.  _ I _ could be dead.”

Arthur groaned and flopped back on the bed. It was exceptionally thin so he ended up banging into the wall behind him. “Oh fuck this,” Arthur muttered grumpily and stood up.

“It is your fault you’re in here, you know,” Eames said, lying down on the bed, crossing his arms behind his head.

“No,” Arthur said pointing a finger at Eames. “This is your fault. Don’t you dare try to blame me. This is because no one else can see you and they all think I’m crazy.”

“Maybe you are,” Eames suggested with a raised brow.

“Fuck you.”

“If only,” Eames said wistfully while Arthur glared at him.

Once upon a time, Eames’ games were fun, his jokes amusing, but there was something that was starting to piss him off. Maybe it was because he was stuck in a psych ward for the next 72 hours. That had to be it.

Arthur sighed softly and leant against the wall, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Everything was so messed up. Everything was ruined because he was weak.

“We’re going to get out of here and you’re going to pretend you don’t exist,” Arthur said after a short silence. It was the only thing he could think of, only way he could see himself getting out of the mess with minimal damage to his psyche. Sure, he had an imaginary friend, his psyche was already pretty screwed. It didn’t mean he needed to add to the problem by being in a psych ward longer than necessary.

“And how am I supposed to pretend I don’t exist when you’re the only one who can see me?”

“We’re going to play a game.”

Eames sat up, suddenly very interested in what Arthur hard to say. “And what game would that be?”

“How long can you shut up for?”

—

Twenty-eight days later, Arthur was still in the psych ward.

After the initial 72 hours, it had been decided that Arthur would benefit from an extended stay. His parents had signed the agreement without a second thought, quite literally. They’d been told once and signed the papers immediately after. Arthur had been horrified and despite his insistence that he was perfectly alright to go home, the fact that he was a minor meant his parents had the final say.

Eames had somehow managed to not be a massive disruption for the whole time. Arthur suspected it might have had something to do with the drugs they were giving him. Eames occasionally had a fuzzy quality to him, like his edges were bleeding into the rest of the world. It was weird. Sometimes Arthur felt good, like he could take on the whole world, but sometimes he felt like doing nothing but staring at a wall. During those moments, Eames always sat next to him. Just the presence of his best friend was enough for Arthur, even though he desperately wished Eames was tangible just so he could feel the familiar warmth of another person.

“This is our last session, Arthur,” his therapist said with a smile.

Arthur smiled back. He didn’t feel happy. Well, maybe he was a little happy that they were finally releasing him, but he didn’t feel happy about much else. He’d been forced to suppress a part of himself just to make everyone else feel better and it was horrible. In fact, it felt fucking terrible. Eames was more than willing to wax poetic about how it made  _ him _ feel.

“How do you feel about that?”

Arthur had expected the question. He’d been asked how he felt so many times over the past month that it was starting to lose all meaning. But he’d formulated his answer, had been planning it all night with Eames. There was no way he was going to risk slipping up at the final hurdle.

“Kinda nervous,” he said with a shaky laugh.

“What do you mean?” the therapist prompted.

Arthur took a deep breath and looked off to the window. He was passing it off as looking outside, at the blue skies that he was hoping to get to see properly soon. But Eames was standing next to the window, leaning against the sill as he watched Arthur.

“Well things are different out there,” Arthur said, gesturing outside. “There’s more temptation to slip into old habits. It’s going to be hard.”

The therapist nodded, scribbling notes onto his pad. “And you’re afraid that Eames will return?”

“Well, yeah.” Arthur shrugged. There wasn’t really any other way to put it.

“You’ve made great progress while you’ve been here, Arthur. I really think you’re underestimating yourself.”

Arthur smiled shyly. He wasn’t used to any sort of praise from people that didn’t live inside his head. “Thank you.”

“You’ll have weekly sessions with me to start with. But we’ll see how things go. Maybe we can get you down to monthly visits,” the therapist said with a wink.

Arthur felt a little bad. He really did. This guy was nice enough, seemed to genuinely care about Arthur, but Arthur was playing him. All Arthur wanted was to get out of there as fast as possible and so he’d taken the easy route. He did everything they asked of him, took the drugs they gave him—even though they made him feel not like himself—and told them Eames was gone. It had worked, though. Every single person he interacted with in the ward seemed to believe that he was better, that Arthur was no longer crazy and seeing people that weren’t there.

He wasn’t sure if they were all delusional or if people really did make miraculous progress like that. But he wasn’t going to complain, especially since his parents were waiting outside the therapist’s office.

“Hello, sweetheart,” his mother said, wrapping him in a tight hug as soon as he was out of the office.

“Hi, Mom,” he said as he returned the hug. It was odd, how much he’d missed his mother really. He had missed the smell of her, just the familiar scent of her perfume was threatening to make him cry.

Somehow he managed not to, though, and when he pulled back, his father was smiling down at him.

“Well, that’s new,” Eames said, his voice far too close for Arthur.

He wanted to react, wanted to punch Eames in the face. They’d managed to make it through almost a whole month without incident and he was already pushing his luck. They weren’t even out of the hospital. Arthur was going to tear him a new one when they got home.

“Home?” Arthur asked, hoping it prompted his parents into doing something more than just standing awkwardly in the hallway while Eames made a nuisance of himself.

“Absolutely. We’ll get you all signed out,” his mother said, linking an arm through Arthur’s and started leading the way to the nurse’s station.

Arthur had already packed the meagre things that he’d been allowed to have during his stay and someone had collected them for him. So the whole process of getting out was easier than he could have hoped for.

They let him go with a passing “hope we don’t see you again” and as soon as Arthur was outside, he took a deep breath. The fresh air was a welcome change from the stale, recirculated air that was pumped into the hospital. Sure, they had let Arthur outside every now and then, but it wasn’t the same as knowing he was free to be outside for as long as he wanted.

“How would you like to stop for ice cream before going home?”

Arthur turned to his father and beamed at him, dimples out in full force. It had been so long since his father had said anything with such a pleased tone. A warm fuzzy feeling filled Arthur and he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this was what his parents needed as well. Maybe the whole experience wasn’t a total wash. Not when his parents looked much younger than he thought they had before he went into the ward.

“They’re only happy because they think you’re cured.”

Arthur swallowed, his smile lessening just a little at Eames’ words. They stung, hitting far too close to home. He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t argue that Eames was wrong. His parents thought he was cured but his imaginary friend was there, helpfully reminding him that he was still crazy.

“Can I get mint chocolate chip?” Arthur asked, trying to get that warm fuzzy feeling back.

“You can have anything you want, sweetie. Anything at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you confused yet?  
> I kinda hope so!  
> There will be answers, don't worry.


	5. Eighteen Years Old

The decision to go to Reed College in Oregon was made purely so Arthur could get away from everybody that knew about his stint in the psych ward.

High school had been torture after he’d been released but his parents hadn’t let him drop out. They figured he was fine so why would he need to hide from his ‘friends’? It wasn’t like Arthur could just tell them Eames was still around. They were just so proud of him. Neither could he mention that the other kids were going to tease him because he was now a certified nutcase.

“Mom, please,” Arthur complained. “You’re making a scene.”

His mom sniffled, pulling away from the tight hug she’d been holding him hostage with.

“You let her have this moment,” his father said gruffly.

Arthur looked over his mom’s head at his dad, the tone confusing him. His father was wiping at the corner of his eye, trying to pass it off as rubbing and failing miserably.

“Our little boy is off to college,” his mom said, pulling out a tissue to dab at her eyes.

“I’m not leaving forever,” Arthur said, picking up one of his bags. “Besides, I’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”

Arthur’s mom tried to smile, tried to pretend she wasn’t still crying.

He felt bad for hurting her like he was, but the move was for him. She would forgive him eventually.

“I promise to call every week,” Arthur conceded and pulled his mom into a hug.

“All these feeling are making me ill,” Eames complained from behind him.

Arthur resisted the urge to tell Eames to shut up. He wanted to have this moment with his parents. He had so few memories of them like this and each and every one of them were precious to him.

“Can you say goodbye now so we can explore?”

Arthur closed his eyes, ignoring Eames as he gave his mom one last squeeze before stepping back.

“You’ll call every week?” his mom asked as Arthur’s father wrapped an arm around her shoulders, filling the void Arthur had just left.

“Every week,” Arthur promised.

He grabbed his bags and gave his parents one last wave before heading into his dorm. They had wanted to go in with him to help him get settled, but Arthur had been adamant that he had to do it by himself. He figured it would be easier for everyone if they didn’t drag the farewell out, even though they had flown to the other side of the country to help him.

“Finally,” Eames said the moment Arthur closed the dorm door.

Somehow, Arthur had been given a single. It was unheard of for a freshman, but he wasn’t going to complain. The solitude was going to be nice, not to mention that would actually be able to talk to Eames without worrying about anyone thinking he was insane. That in itself was making the whole college experience perfect already.

“It’s all ours,” Eames said as he threw himself onto the bare mattress, crossing his ankles and folding his arms behind his head.

Arthur flashed him a grin, dimples pressing into his cheeks. “Just us,” Arthur agreed, dropping his bags on the floor before joining Eames on the bed.

A strange sort of freedom flowed through Arthur. No one knew him at college. No one knew about his past.

This was his chance for a fresh start.

—

There were many things Arthur had thought college would be like, but overwhelming wasn’t one of them. There were a multitude of options he never thought he’d ever had; cheetos or vegetables, studying or sleeping, passing or failing, friends or no friends. Really, Arthur was spoiled for choice and it was driving him crazy. Crazier than he already was.

“Can we please go to the party?” Eames asked, circling Arthur as he tried to work on a paper.

Some girl from his English Lit class had invited him to some kegger and, while Arthur had been tempted, he’d decided to stay in and work. Maybe it made him boring but Arthur wasn’t used to going out and socialising. It wasn’t a thing he was good at.

“Pretty please, Arthur.”

“Can’t you just find something to do here?” Arthur asked without looking up from his laptop. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Eames and his needs. In fact, it was the first time in years that Arthur wished there was a way to get Eames to go away. If only he’d figured out that trick.

“There is  _ nothing _ to do here. All the people are out there, Arthur. Having a good time like we could be,” Eames whined.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at his friend. Eames was standing at the window, hands in his pockets. Arthur wondered if he was actually looking out or just pretending to in an attempt to make Arthur feel guilty for not giving in.

“There’s plenty to do here.”

“Like what?” Eames asked, turning around to face Arthur.

Arthur swivelled in his chair. “Like being quiet?”

“When did you stop being fun?”

Arthur sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. It had been months since Arthur had gone out and done anything Eames considered interesting. It wasn’t that Arthur wasn’t making friends—he actually had made a few—he just didn’t find partying to be that interesting. People expected you to drink, to get a little wild, and Arthur wasn’t that kind of person. He thought Eames would understand that since he lived inside Arthur’s head. It turned out that Eames didn’t.

“You can’t even talk to anyone,” Arthur pointed out, hoping it would help his case.

“I can talk to you,” Eames said brightly.

Eames was never going to relent. Arthur knew it would be a constant battle all evening so he agreed, deciding it was better for his sanity if he just gave Eames what he wanted. “An hour,” he said, pointing a warning finger at Eames who was grinning at him. This was going to end so badly, Arthur could already feel it.

“Perfect. Up you get.”

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes but stood all the same. He grabbed a jacket, his wallet, and keys before leaving his dorm.

The party was on the other side of the campus so the walk took a little while which Arthur hoped counted towards the time he’d promised Eames at the party. It was in full swing by the time Arthur turned up. There were drunk people loitering on the lawn, cheering loudly as someone did a backflip. There were even more drunk people inside the house and the moment he stepped over the threshold, Arthur was swept up in a group of people.

They took him to the kitchen which appeared to be the makeshift bar. The counters were covered with open bottles of various alcohols, some of them empty. Arthur wasn’t entirely convinced going to the party was the wisest choice.

He shot a look at Eames as someone handed him a cup filled to the brim with some brown liquid. Arthur wanted to ask what it was but the look Eames gave him said that it would be seriously uncool to ask. So Arthur took a sip, wincing as it burned on the way down. Whatever it was, Arthur didn’t like it.

“Come on,” Eames said, ushering Arthur out of the kitchen to where people were dancing.

It was a mass of writhing people, bouncing and grinding against one another. The music was so loud, Arthur could barely hear himself think. But that also meant that Eames was drowned out and for once, Arthur didn’t mind.

There was finally a peace in his head that Arthur was enjoying and he smiled more as he continued sipping the brown liquid.

Arthur was on his second drink when he noticed the blue-eyed guy staring at him. Well, he couldn’t be totally sure the guy was staring at  _ him _ since he was currently being swallowed by a mass of people. But, when the crowd parted, Arthur made eye contact with the blue-eyed person and blushed at the smile he received. He wasn’t used to smiles directed at him, not genuine ones at any rate.

He watched as the guy made his way through the crowd, gently guiding people so they weren’t in his path. Arthur couldn’t keep his eyes off him and as he got closer, Arthur let his eyes roam. It was pretty clear this guy was interested in Arthur, so he didn’t mind letting his own interest show. Even if Eames was suddenly hovering much closer than he had been before, Arthur wanted to look at this real person that was moving towards him.

The bright blue eyes were only the beginning. Arthur had always thought Eames was his type but somehow, this guy in front of him was making Arthur feel  _ something _ .

“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” the guy asked, his breath tickling Arthur’s ear.

Arthur nodded, gripping the cup tighter. He could blame leaving the party with a total stranger on the alcohol he’d consumed but it was only partly to blame. The guy was so attractive and he was interested in Arthur. Who was he to turn that down?

“What’s your name?” he blurted out once they were outside.

“Robert,” he said with a smile. “What should I call you?”

“Arthur.”

Robert repeated his name with a smile. Warmth spread through Arthur at the sound of his name being said as though it was something sweet, something to be savoured.

“So, Arthur, where are we going?”

That was the question. Arthur didn’t know of many places on campus that would be good to get to know someone. He spent most of his time in the library or his dorm which didn’t leave him many options at all.

“Um,” he hesitated, turning over options in his fuzzy head.

“Oh, you’re brilliant, Arthur. Charm him with your superior decision-making skills,” Eames teased, walking beside Arthur.

Arthur grumbled which earned him a look from Robert. Arthur blushed, embarrassed that he’d slipped up in front of another person, especially someone as attractive as Robert. He was sure it was going to hurt his chances.

“My place,” he suggested.

Robert raised a brow. “Lead the way.”

Arthur hesitated for the barest second, wondering if he’d made the right decision before leading Robert to his dorm.

“Our dorm? You’re taking  _ him _ to  _ our _ dorm?” Eames asked, incredulous.

Arthur ignored him and turned to Robert only to find him staring off into the distance. “You okay?” Arthur asked, wondering if something had happened in the short time since they’d left the party.

“Peachy,” Robert said, flashing a perfect smile at Arthur. “So, do you usually go out and pick random guys up at parties?”

Arthur snorted then covered his face with a hand. God, he was making a mess of everything.

“Smooth,” Eames interjected.

Arthur flashed him a quick look, muttering “shut up” at his best friend. “Actually,” Arthur said, looking back at Robert. “That was the first party I’d been to all year.”

“So I’m your first then?”

The way Robert said those words made Arthur flush. He wasn’t prudish but really, Eames was the only person he’d had any sort of sexual experience with. That made Robert’s tone terrifying.

Robert must have seen Arthur’s reaction because he moved closer, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, darling. I can be very gentle.”

—

Arthur was nervous. He and Robert had planned to spend the evening together. He wasn’t nervous about the date—they’d been on several since the party—he was nervous about what he had planned for after the date. Arthur was going to invite Robert to stay the night. Arthur was ready or at least pretty sure he was ready. He wanted to  _ try _ at the very least.

Eames had been teasing him all day. Arthur was pretty sure it was because he was jealous. Arthur wanted to have sex with a real person and Eames was hurt.

Arthur did feel a little bad for hurting his friend, but they both had to get used to the idea of Arthur being with someone else. They both had to make room in their lives. It couldn’t be them together until the end of time. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure he could make it if he didn’t have a physical person to be able to touch. Not when he longed to touch Eames so desperately. He needed something, someone to reach out and grab in those moments of pleasure.

“You could always cancel,” Eames offered from his perch on the bed.

“What are you on about?” Arthur asked without looking away from the mirror. He ran a hand over is hair. He’d slicked it back to keep the curls off his face. He wanted to look older, more mature so Robert would take his request seriously.

“Let’s stay in and watch a movie together.”

Arthur actually turned around at that one, raising a brow at his friend. “You’re kidding right? You actually wanting to stay  _ in _ ?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Eames bristled.

A knock on the door stopped Arthur from responding but he wanted to, wanted to find out what was going on with Eames but Robert was waiting and Arthur had plans for the evening. There really was only one thing he wanted to accomplish and that was to get Robert in his bed. He wasn’t going to be able to make that happen if Eames was being a pain in the ass because he was jealous.

Arthur opened the door, dimpling at his date.

“I figured you might like to stay in,” Robert said, lifting a bag full of delicious smelling food.

He couldn’t stop his grin from widening. This was certainly one way of keeping Eames off his back.

“Come in,” Arthur murmured, stepping out of the way to let Robert past.

“You know, this isn’t what I had in mind,” Eames complained from his perch on Arthur’s bed.

Arthur ignored him in favour of watching Robert start pulling containers from the bag. As each one was removed, the smells got more intense and Arthur could make out that Robert had stopped off at Arthur’s favourite Chinese place.

They mostly ate in silence, Arthur doing his best to forget that Eames was in the room offering his unhelpful advice on everything Arthur was saying. He didn’t care if his accent had been off when he’d spoken in French. Robert had still seemed charmed and Arthur was more than willing to think of it as a win. Eames could go to hell for all Arthur cared right then. The evening was going exactly as Arthur had planned and all he had to do was seduce Robert into his bed.

“Do you—” Arthur smiled, shyness overwhelming him all of a sudden. Everything had been good, conversation flowing smoothly, but now that Arthur was attempting to be flirty and somehow not overt, it was all going south alarmingly fast.

“Yes,” Robert replied, flashing a small smile before he ducked in and kissed Arthur.

Arthur’s heart pounded against his chest, hands flying to Robert’s hair as he kissed back. It was so much more than Arthur had ever dreamed kissing another person could be like. No matter how many times they’d kissed, it was like the first time all over again.

Robert broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Arthur’s, their breath mingling as they panted.

“Robert,” Arthur started but was cut off as he was maneuvered towards the bed. He landed with a soft thud, the breath going out of him as Robert chased him, their lips colliding in a clash of teeth and tongue.

He ran his hands down Robert’s back, slipping them under his shirt and moaning at the warm skin he found underneath.

This was as far as they had gotten in the past, plenty of making out and a little hands on groping, but Robert always stopped before they could get any further. He wasn’t going to let that happen this time, though. Arthur had his plan and he was willing to do anything to make it happen.

He shifted, spreading his legs so Robert could slip between them. He tried to bite back the moan as Robert pressed against his dick, but he couldn’t. It was too perfect, it felt too perfect and he didn’t want Robert to stop.

“Darling, you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this.”

Arthur frowned, trying to figure out if Robert’s accent had changed slightly but didn’t get a chance to say anything because Robert was unbuttoning his shirt, exposing Arthur’s stomach to the heated air.

“Look at you,” Eames muttered, dragging Arthur’s attention from Robert for a brief second. “Why don’t you just beg? It might be less demeaning.”

A pang shot through him. The betrayed tone cutting Arthur’s heart. Part of him wanted to console his best friend, but Robert was all Arthur could see and he was kissing his way down Arthur’s stomach. The light fluttery kisses were both a turn on and slightly distracting.

“You’re just going to let him suck you off?” Eames asked from somewhere across the room.

Arthur tried to ignore Eames and focus on Robert tugging Arthur’s trousers open but it was nearly impossible. Eames was keeping up a running commentary on everything that was happening and he was sounding more frustrated and hurt with each word.

Arthur groaned, pushing Robert’s head until he moved. “Sorry,” he mumbled when Robert quirked a brow up at him. “I can’t do this.”

Robert sighed, shaking his head and standing from the bed. There was an obvious bulge in his pants that Arthur was steadfastly ignoring so he could stick to his guns. He’d already stopped the evening in its tracks and there was no saving it.

“You’ve got to wake up, Arthur,” Robert sighed, flashing a sad smile at Arthur before leaving.

Arthur pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, groaning and resisting the urge to cry. The one thing he wanted and he couldn’t even manage it because of his asshole imaginary friend.

He dropped one hand and glared over at Eames who was staring at the door as though he expected Robert to come busting back through it. “I hope you’re happy,” Arthur muttered.

“Not even close,” Eames growled, turning on Arthur with a feral look.

It should have scared him, frightened him in some way to see Eames looking like that, but instead, Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t stop himself from sneaking a hand into his pants and fisting himself until he came with a harsh cry.


	6. Twenty-Eight Years Old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the sort of MCD comes into play.  
> Beware.

Arthur was the best point man in the entirety of dreamshare. There wasn’t a single job that he didn’t know about and everyone knew that if they needed information on someone, all they had to do was get in touch with Arthur.

After college, he had floundered while trying to find where he fit in the world. Mal had come into his life entirely by accident, taking him down in a swirl of red and coffee. From that first meeting, Arthur had been infatuated with both her and dreaming. There was something about Mal that had made Arthur feel as though he had come home, like he suddenly fit in a world that had constantly told him how much he stood out.

He had slipped into the role of point man without any difficulty, finding that it was everything he had been looking for but hadn’t known about. The fact that he could go under and dream about a world where he could actually  _ touch _ Eames had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“I get that you think you know everything, but could you stop pretending like we do?” Geoff asked, his voice rising in that irritating way he seemed to have.

Eames cleared his throat and rolled his eyes when Arthur glanced over at him. They had spent many hours in their hotel room complaining about Geoff and Eames had taken to hovering near Geoff, pulling faces at nearly everything the man said.

It was the only thing that had made the job bearable but Arthur was regretting having agreed to do it without Mal or Dom. They were a team for a reason and the only reason he had even ventured out with a different group was because Mal had announced she was pregnant. No one knew what the effects would be on a fetus and so Mal had to take a backseat for a while. Arthur missed her dearly, but he knew it was for the best. He just wished he hadn’t had to continue working without her.

The job was meant to be a simple in and out, nothing complicated and really—if Arthur had wanted to—he probably could have done the whole thing by himself. But Mal hadn’t let him. She had insisted that he needed a team. If you worked in a team and shared the load, everything was supposed to go smoother.

But Geoff was a fucking idiot and Serena was the most incompetent chemist he had ever come across. When he made it back home, Arthur was going to destroy these two and make sure they couldn’t screw anyone else over ever again.

“What part of ‘I’m out of the job because you’ve fucked up’ don’t you understand?” Arthur asked as he frantically packed the PASIV away.

Eames nodded, standing a few feet away from Arthur but the movement caught his eye.

He did a double take, frowning at the blue shirt. He could have sworn Eames had been wearing a green shirt earlier.

“Arthur, please. The job isn’t finished yet,” Serena pleaded. Her voice was far too innocent for her to not be a part of whatever crap was going down.

When he had arrived at the warehouse, Arthur had noticed an alarming number of people milling around. He had specifically chosen that warehouse because of how secluded it was and now it was the most popular place in town. The only explanation he could give was that one of his team had slipped up and now Arthur was going to have to clean up the mess. As per usual.

If only they would stop fighting him and just get a fucking move on.

“Could you stop being a dick for all of two seconds?” Geoff tried again, stepping into Arthur’s personal space.

“Just forget about them,” Eames offered from Arthur’s other side, a sudden flash of green in his peripheral.

“I’m not going to say it again, get out now or you’re on your own.” Arthur grabbed the PASIV and strolled out of the warehouse, leaving the rest of the team gaping behind him.

He made it all the way to his car before Eames stepped in front of him, all blue shirt and stormy eyes, a gun pointed straight at Arthur.

“What are you doing?” Eames asked, green rushing past Arthur as he tried to catch up with what the fuck was going on.

“What I should have done months ago, darling,” Eames in the blue shirt said, pulling the trigger with a wince.

Arthur stumbled, dropping the PASIV and crumpling to the ground. “Eames…” he choked out, clutching at his chest as he blinked up at the darkening sky. “What—”

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Eames murmured, lifting Arthur’s head into his lap and running his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“How…” He couldn’t form the words, blood bubbling up and stopping him from asking how in the world Eames was holding him. He’d waited his whole life to be held by Eames and now, as he was dying, he was finally getting his wish. Something wasn’t adding up but Arthur couldn’t figure it out.

“It’ll be alright, I promise. I’ll see you so very soon, darling.” Eames pressed a kiss to his forehead, his lips warm and soft.

Arthur frowned, wondering if he was imagining things due to blood loss. “Eames,” he whispered, seeing two of them standing over him before darkness overwhelmed him.

“You’ve got to wake up, Arthur.”


	7. Liminal

_ “You’ve got to wake up, Arthur.” _

The words echoed in his head, throbbing to the beat of his heart. There was a meaning to them that he couldn’t quite grasp, a strain to the voice that whispered in his ear, begging him to come back from wherever it was that he had been.

He blinked, wincing at the harsh white light that greeted him. An ache blossomed behind his eyes, dragging him back to the depths of whatever sleep he’d woken from.

_ “You’ve got to wake up, Arthur.” _

There was a weight sitting on his chest, holding him back as he tried to reach the surface. Something was calling to him, pleading, desperately imploring Arthur to return. He’d been sleeping for what felt like years, surely there was no way to return. Not anymore.

The lights were still too bright, blinding when he opened his eyes for a brief second. He couldn’t keep them open. It was all too much. Too bright. Too loud. Too hard.

He gave in, letting exhaustion wash over him and pull him back to a dreamless world.

_ “You’ve got to wake up, Arthur.” _


	8. February

He took a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. There wasn’t an ache in his entire body. How long had he been asleep for?

He blinked, wincing a little at the harsh white lights overhead. The sight was familiar, tugging at his memories for something he couldn’t grasp. There was something he should remember but he couldn’t, not quite. It was just out of reach and it was infuriating.

Arthur turned his head, biting down on the small gasp as something twinged.

“Sweetheart,” someone breathed as though they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

“Mom,” he croaked when his eyes landed on the familiar face. His eyes stung, his throat constricting, as he watched the emotions play over her face before she rushed out of her chair and clutched at him.

“Oh my boy,” she cried. “My baby boy.” Tears welled in her eyes as she hugged Arthur, practically climbing on top of him.

“What happened?” he asked. The last thing Arthur remembered was being shot but as far as he could tell, he didn’t have a bullet wound, didn’t have any injuries at all. There was no way he could have slept through the whole healing process. He should have had some sort of memories.

“You’ve been asleep for three months,” his father said, stepping into the room as he slipped something into his pocket.

“What do you mean ‘asleep’?”

“Medically there wasn’t anything wrong with you but you wouldn’t wake up. We were so worried. We all were.”

Arthur frowned. “All?”

“Both of us,” his mother corrected.

Well, that wasn’t confusing at all. “Well, I’m awake now.”

“Yes, yes you are.” His mother smiled at him and something opened in his chest.

He’d missed that smiled, missed seeing her face and that was odd because hadn’t he just visited her last week? But they’d said he’d been asleep for three months. Arthur’s mind whirled as the realisation dawned on him.

Limbo.

He’d been in limbo.

Arthur sat up and started pulling the drips and everything off him.

“What are you doing?” his mother asked, frantically trying to stop him.

“I need to talk to Dom,” he said, dodging her hands and climbing off the bed.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” his father cut in, voice dripping with disapproval.

Arthur levelled a look at his father. He wasn’t going to lie around in a bed when there wasn’t anything wrong with him. But how was he going to explain that to his parents? He’d discharged himself from the hospital before. It wasn’t something out of the ordinary for him. Sure, maybe Arthur had no idea how being in limbo for so long was going to affect him, but he wasn’t going to sit around twiddling his thumbs. Arthur was going to get answers and Dom was his first stop. He might not have the all the information Arthur was looking for, but it was the only thing he could think of.

“Sweetheart, there are people that need to see you.”

“I don’t want to see anyone,” he yelled, turning on his mother. The look on her face stopped him from going further. He choked back more words, shame welling inside him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, reaching out for her.

He felt horrible, he really did, for yelling at his mother. But there was something indescribable sitting just under his skin. Maybe it was a side-effect from being in limbo so long. Arthur had no idea. As far as he knew, there wasn’t anyone that had come back coherent after so long in unconstructed dream space. If anyone had heard anything, it would be Mal and Dom.

“I have things I need to do,” he said calmly, trying to convey the importance of what he was saying without giving anything away.

“You’ve been in a coma for three months. The doctors need to check you out. This is madness,” his father said, barely containing his irritation.

Arthur swallowed hard. His parents had no idea what he did for a living and there was no way he could explain. There weren’t enough words in the world to tell them what had happened to him. Really, he could barely remember what happened. That was why he needed to get to Mal and Dom. That was why he needed to find the answers. Someone knew what had happened to him, why he’d ended up in limbo with his parents at his bedside.

He was going to flay the person that had gotten him stuck there.

“Alright,” he conceded, finally unable to resist his mother’s pained expression. “I’ll stay for a few days.”


	9. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. Things will start getting longer again soon!

Being home was nearly impossible. Everything was exactly as he remembered and yet not quite the same. It wasn’t entirely surprising, though. Limbo was always a creation of what you knew and what you built, but that didn’t make it any easier. He wished his limbo had been more abstract. Maybe then he wouldn’t be getting confused over every little detail.

A part of him wanted to up and leave so he could get far away from all the memories that weren’t real, but his mother wouldn’t let him out of her sight. She hardly even let him go to the bathroom alone and that was embarrassing as fuck. He had grown out of needing her help when he was six. He’d always had Eames there to help.

Arthur frowned, dragging a hand down his face.

Eames had  _ never _ been there to help.

“Mom,” Arthur called, his chest tightening with an ache for something that wasn’t even real. Arthur was feeling Eames’ absence like the loss of a limb. There was a way to continue without the constant sardonic commentary, but Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to. Life was far too silent without the ridiculous British accent.

That was something Arthur never thought he would complain about. But he was finding that without Eames there to make some snide remark about something, Arthur didn’t know how to respond.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” his mother asked from the doorway.

Arthur could have rattled off a million things that were wrong but he didn’t. He kept those to himself so he wouldn’t burden anyone else. He really wanted to ask about any English men he might have known. All of his memories might not have been there, but Arthur wasn’t stupid. He’d already found his parents staring at him as though he’d grown a second head and he couldn’t stop the panic welling at the thought that they might stick him back in a psych ward. It was harder still to remind himself that they had never actually done that to him.

It had all been a part of limbo.

His parents loved him.

“Where’s my computer?” He needed a distraction and looking up people he remembered from limbo seemed like the best place to start. Surely, they had all been there for a reason. At the very least, it would give him something to do that wasn’t sitting and staring into space while he imagined what Eames might say if he was there.

“In the den,” she said, frowning at him.

Clearly, that was something else he was supposed to remember. He was going to have to add that to his notebook when she wasn’t looking. The list of things people expected him to know was starting to get long.

“Thanks,” he muttered and brushed past his mother, walking into two wrong rooms before finally stumbling across the den.

He might have recreated the house while he was in limbo, but apparently, he had no recollection of the communal room. Everything was annoyingly new and somehow old at the same time. Arthur was having serious doubts that he was ever going to sort everything out in his head.

He was pleased that navigating the computer was easier than he had anticipated. Finding Robert was even easier than that.

He spent the next two hours digging up every single piece of information he could on anyone he remembered; Dom, Robert, his parents, Eames—who apparently didn’t exist—, and Mal.

When Mal’s face appeared on the screen, an obituary accompanying the beautiful picture, Arthur’s heart gave out. He’d just seen her. She’d been happy, pregnant, and ready to embark on her new life. But that had all already happened. How could he not remember that she had died?

“Arthur, sweetie? What’s wrong?”

Arthur startled, jerking back and wiping at his face at his mother’s sudden appearance. He cleared his throat and shook his head.

“Did you know her?” she asked, rubbing circles into his back.

He leaned into her touch, the need for his mother to comfort him overwhelming any sense of being independent. Eames and Mal were both gone. Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to live in a world without two of his best friends.

“I’m okay, mom,” he replied in lieu of actually giving in to the urge to tell her everything he could remember—whether or not it was a real memory or one from limbo.

“If there’s anything you want to talk about—”

“Everything is fine, mom.”

The look she gave him was exactly as he remembered—a mix of indignation, disbelief, and pity—but she gave him a peck on the head and left him with a none too gentle reminder that she was there if he ever wanted to talk about anything at all.

When she was gone and he couldn’t hear any signs of anyone nearby, Arthur opened up a search on himself.


	10. August 14

Queenstown was one of the best places Arthur had ever been asked to work. He had a fascination with the snow and the novelty of winter in August was sustaining him through working with people he had no recollection of whatsoever. Except for Dom.

It had taken several emails, phone calls, and months for Arthur to convince Dom that he was perfectly fine to go under. There was always the chance his reality was going to get confused, but Arthur had his die to fall back on and he kept it close at all times. It sat in his waistcoat pocket, easy reach whenever Arthur felt like he was losing his grasp on anything. Though, it was effortless when attempted to recall how he got somewhere.

He could tell anyone—especially Dom—exactly how he had ended up in Queenstown, freezing his ass off by the lake while the rest of the team was warm in a hotel room. Arthur was going to come up with some reason for Dom to bury himself in some snow, just to get back at him. He was desperately trying to convince Dom that they didn’t need to add anyone else to the team. At the rate they were going, Arthur’s cut was going to get smaller by the day. And to get a decent forger, they were going to have to pay out the nose.

No one would fly to the bottom of the world to be paid peanuts.

There was every possibility that Dom had already gone behind his back, though. From what Arthur could remember—and what his file on Dom suggested—it was highly likely that Dom would screw him over somehow. Hiring a forger without Arthur agreeing to it seemed like just the kind of thing that Dom would do.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by his phone buzzing in his pocket, shocking him enough that he nearly dropped his laptop.

“What?” he snapped into the cell, eyes darting around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

“I’ve gotten in touch with a forger that was in the area—”

Arthur groaned, tipping his head back.

“—he can be here this evening.”

“You know, when I said ‘no’, it wasn’t just a suggestion,” Arthur muttered, imagining all the ways he could sneak Dom’s mattress outside while he was sleeping.

“We needed a forger so I got one,” Dom replied, ignoring Arthur’s murderous tone.

“Don’t hire anyone else while I’m gone.” He hung up and rubbed at his eyes. The extra work was already doing his head in.

—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Arthur muttered as he tapped away, trying to correlate the new information he’d gathered.

Dom had left to meet the forger and bring him back to the hotel so Arthur had taken the sudden quiet as his moment to get a ton of work done. He’d already managed to uncover the mark’s phone records and penchant for spanking and was on a roll, nearly having cracked the email, when the door opened, Dom’s voice floating across the room to him.

At least it seemed the forger was reliable enough to get to the city when he said he would.

“Never been to Queenstown.”

Arthur stiffened, his heart picking up. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, desperately attempting to calm down. There was no way that voice belonged to who he thought it did.

He wasn’t in limbo.

Eames didn’t exist.

“Arthur,” Dom said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and breaking Arthur’s quiet counting. “Our forger.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, swallowing hard as his eyes landed on an incredibly real looking Eames.

He didn’t wait for anyone to say anything else before he was up and out of the hotel room, leaving everything behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun...


	11. August 15

Twenty rolls of his die had him mostly convinced that everything was reality.

Eames was real.

Eames wasn’t only a figment of his imagination.

Eames had been a part of his life pre-limbo.

Arthur had no recollection of what was real when it came to Eames. He had memories of growing up, Eames always there, but he also had memories of Eames that involved far away countries, holding hands as they meandered around foreign cities.

Another roll of his die reminded him that it was still reality.

 _Four_.

It was as though the number itself had started mocking him.

He tucked the die into his waistcoat pocket, barely resisting the urge to throw it out the window. At the rate things were going, the die was going to help just as much if he didn’t have it anymore. No matter how many times he rolled it, Arthur couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Eames was real. There was a real life person that shared the same face, the same accent, the same startling laugh, as his imaginary best friend.

A knock on the door startled him out of his dangerous reverie.

“You look like shit,” Dom announced.

“Fuck you very muchly,” Arthur growled, slamming the door behind him as he stalked to their communal room.

It had been Arthur’s idea to work somewhere separate from where they all slept. It was mostly an excuse for Arthur to have a place he could run to and get away from everyone when his memories started to get muddled. With the sudden appearance of a certain forger, Arthur was grateful for the room to run to.

“So, you wanna talk about yesterday?”

Arthur mumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and ducking his head. He’d been trying to figure out a plan on how to deal with the sudden appearance of his imaginary best friend and hadn’t come up with anything. Dom bringing it up wasn’t going to magically help him decide on a plan of action. Not to mention the fact that he was going to murder Dom for saying he’d never heard of anyone named Eames before. Unless Eames wasn’t actually called Eames…

There were far too many variables for Arthur’s liking and, the more he thought about it, the more his head hurt.

“Let’s just get this job over and done with, okay?” Arthur asked, trying to convey that it was entirely rhetorical and he didn’t want Dom to respond.

Thankfully, the shared room was empty when they arrived. If Arthur actually believed in God, he would have sent a silent "thanks" up. Instead, he settled at the desk and started in on his work. Since he’d left in the middle of correlating information, it took a while to get back into a rhythm. Dom placed a mug next to him, the smell of coffee wafting over to him and enticing him to take a quick sip as he figured out what he still had to do.

—

At some point, the architect turned up. Arthur had, as far as he remembered, never worked with Elliott before, but he didn’t have any complaints. The guy was quiet and mostly kept to himself, only asking Arthur questions when he couldn’t figure something out himself. It was actually pleasant, not being harassed over stupid things like Dom was prone to do.

Because Elliott was so quiet, Arthur hadn’t actually noticed him arrive. However, when the door opened again, every one of his senses alerted him to the fact that Eames was very much there. He was incredibly real and incredibly _there_ in the hotel room.

Arthur was acutely aware of Eames moving throughout the room, greeting Dom and Elliott and offering a passing “hello” in Arthur’s direction—which he ignored because his tongue had forgotten how to do more than just sit awkwardly in his mouth—and settling in at the other desk in the room.

A distractingly large part of Arthur wanted to reach out, to drag Eames into a conversation like they used to have. But, he had to remind himself that those conversations all happened in limbo.

Eames didn’t know Arthur.

Arthur didn’t know Eames.

That was quite possibly the hardest part for Arthur to come to terms with. His die had done its job of reassuring him that he was living in reality but it didn’t help with the ache of having someone that looked exactly like his best friend sitting across the room from him. How was he supposed to get anything done when all Arthur wanted to do was go to Eames and make him say some sarcastic thing about Dom and his perpetual squint?

“—lo, Arthur?”

Dom was waving a hand in his face, clicking his fingers in a way that had Arthur contemplating how fast he could break them all.

“What?” he snapped, raising a brow at the squint he received.

“We’re getting lunch, you wanna come?”

Arthur’s gaze flicked around the room, noticing both Eames and Elliott standing and watching the whole disastrous interaction. “I’m good,” Arthur replied, dropping his eyes back to his laptop screen. Maybe if he pretended nothing was going on, it would magically become true.

“Alright,” Dom said, clapping Arthur’s shoulder. “We’ll pick something up for you.”

Arthur waved the three of them off, grateful for the sudden peace and quiet that enveloped him. He leaned back in the chair, dragging a hand down his face before pulling out his die. Time had passed so fast, almost as though it had skipped forward. Surely that was a mark in the limbo column.

_Four._

He rolled the die again.

_Four._

“Still reality,” he sighed and pushed away from the desk.

Arthur stalked around the room, his thoughts stuck in a loop revolving around Eames. He couldn’t get past the fact that Eames was there. Eames was there and he wasn’t a figment of Arthur’s imagination. Eames was real and Arthur had no idea how he was supposed to continue working as though he wasn’t silently aching for his best friend.

He had almost convinced himself to call his mom and ask her everything he could think of about strange British men that he apparently knew when his eyes fell on a tiny scrap of paper. On closer inspection, the scrap of paper was actually a gum wrapper and there was a small doodle of a gun.

He reached out a hand, smoothing the paper out with two fingers as he stared at it. There was a tiny niggle in the back of his mind, something itching to break free. It was familiar, tiny drawings on gum wrappers.

Where had he seen that before?

The click of the door handle startled Arthur and he grabbed the wrapper, scrunching it and shoving it into his trousers pocket. He stepped away from the desk, turning his back to the door as the three of them entered.

“Got you a sandwich,” Dom announced cheerily as he handed over a brown paper bag.

Arthur grabbed it without a response and escaped the room, Eames’ voice chasing him as the door closed.

“Has someone been at my desk?”


	12. August 16

Arthur sat in the centre of the bed in his underwear and a t-shirt, the gum wrapper smoothed out on top of the comforter. He’d stared at it for most of the night and still wasn’t any closer to figuring out why the damn thing was familiar.

He had thirty different theories that ranged from TV commercials to a bad habit he used to have, but none of them felt right. Each idea sat strangely in his chest and Arthur knew there was something he was missing, which frustrated him beyond belief. He wanted answers but every little thing he found just gave him a million new questions.

There was every possibility that Arthur was never going to recover his memory of what actually happened to him—how he ended up in limbo—and that pissed him off. He wasn’t the kind of person who could just sit and let life pass him by. If he managed to do one thing with his life, Arthur was determined to make sure it was finding out every little detail about who had fucked him over and left him in limbo.

Arthur was dragged from examining the gum wrapper by his cell ringing. It was an unfortunate reminder that he had other things he was supposed to be doing.

“What?” he grumbled, climbing off the bed and taking the wrapper with him.

“Where are you?” Dom answered. His voice already had an edge to it, like he was ready to fly off the rails at the slightest hint of something going wrong.

“Exactly where I should be,” Arthur sighed. Dom’s panic attacks were something he desperately wished he didn’t remember. They were monumental and Arthur didn’t have the patience for them.

“You’re not in the room.”

“Dom, if you need me to hold your hand the whole time, you need to reassess your life.” Arthur had considered actually spending the day in his own hotel room, communicating with the team via email. While he had ached to see Eames again, Arthur couldn’t stand being in the same room with him.

This Eames wasn’t  _ his _ Eames.

“I need you to do your jo—”

Arthur hung up, cutting Dom off. He had zero interest in being reprimanded. He could do the job just as well from Jamaica and had seriously considered hopping onto the next flight out of Queenstown. As picturesque as the place was, Arthur knew he’d be able to breathe easier with a little distance between him and the team—Eames.

But, no matter what Arthur wanted, he had a job to do.

—

“Right, sure, but it’s not like I’ll bollocks it up,” Eames practically snarled.

Since Arthur had entered the room, Eames and Dom had been at each other’s throats. This dynamic between them had Arthur wondering  _ why _ Dom had hired Eames in the first place. If they hated each other, why the fuck would they work together? Arthur couldn’t wrap his head around it, much like he could barely wrap his head around their argument. From what he could make out, Dom had insinuated something about Eames being unable to do something right and Eames had taken offence.

“Because you have such a great track record,” Dom countered, crossing his arms over his chest and squinting at Eames.

“Could we stop the pissing contest?” Arthur groaned, dropping into an armchair. He hadn’t slept well and now, with the yelling, Arthur was seriously regretting even getting out of bed.

“Would that I could, darling,” Eames replied with a smile that made Arthur’s insides twist.

_ Darling _ … Arthur frowned, rubbing a hand over his brow.

 

_ “Darling, you should forgo the hair gel more often. I like this look better,” Eames said, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder as he draped himself against Arthur’s back. _

_ “I look like a prepubescent child,” Arthur muttered and reached for said gel. _

_ “Let me.” Eames grabbed the container before Arthur could, holding it out of his reach when Arthur tried to get it back. _

_ “Fine,” he sighed. “But you better do a good job.” _

_ “Would that I could, darling.” _

 

“—wake up, Arthur.”

Arthur blinked, eyes crossing as he attempted to focus on the fingers clicking right in front of his face.

_ You’ve got to wake up, Arthur. _

Arthur pushed out of the armchair, stumbling as he bolted from the room. He needed air. He needed his die. He  _ needed _ to not be in limbo again.

The cold air stung his eyes, forcing him to wipe them to get rid of the tears. He’d left the hotel without his jacket and it was freezing. Somehow, it was exactly what he needed. The sudden shock to his system had cleared his head—though rolling the die between his fingers helped settle him back in reality.

This constant questioning of everything was starting to grate on Arthur’s nerves. There had to be something he could do to figure everything out. Unfortunately, he knew that was going to require talking to Eames.

Surely he could manage that.

Arthur turned, determined to strike up a conversation with Eames and start getting things sorted. He made it all of five steps before there was a bang, pushing him backwards until he landed with a thud.

He took a ragged breath in, hands reaching for his leg and slipping as they made contact with an unmistakable hole in his trousers.

“Arthur,” someone called, more hands joining his own. “Stay with me, darling.”

Arthur blinked, focusing on the person pressing against the wound in his leg. “Eames…”

—

_ “Stay with me, darling.” _

The words flowed through his mind, an easy English lilt to them that tempted Arthur to the surface. The words echoed, reminding him that there was something missing, a part of him that was empty and waiting to be filled.

He tried to reach out and grasp what he was missing but his limbs were too heavy.

He couldn’t find the surface.

_ “Stay with me, darling.” _

The lights were bright, blinding in his half-awake state. Someone was sitting next to him, their hands almost touching. Arthur could feel the warmth coming from them and he wanted to grasp, to hold that hand in his own.

His fingers twitched, aching to find their counterpart.

_ “Stay with me, darling.” _

_ — _

Arthur opened his eyes and regretted the decision instantly.

Bright white lights blinded him, almost distracting him from the fact that there was someone sitting in a chair rather close to his bed. He turned his head just enough to get a look and blanched.

“Eames,” Arthur breathed. It was hard to remind himself that it wasn’t  _ actually _ Eames. This Eames hadn’t grown up with Arthur, hadn’t been there for every awkward stage Arthur had been through. This Eames was just there because Arthur had been shot.

“Thank God you’re awake.”

He had to be hallucinating the concern he heard in Eames’ tone. It was all in his mind or at the very least the drugs that were making Arthur feel extremely floaty.

Arthur desperately wished he could reach his die. He could see it sitting on the table next to him but it was just out of reach. If he wanted to check if he was dreaming, it was going to mean getting close to Eames and there was no way in hell Arthur would be able to stand that in his weakened state.

“Thank you for taking me to the hospital,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “You didn’t have to stay.” Arthur wasn’t sure if he would have preferred waking up in the room alone but, having Eames this close and not being able to talk to him like he wanted was actually doing his head in.

“Right.” Eames nodded and Arthur figured he was high as fuck because he could have sworn there was a distinct look of hurt marring Eames’ beautiful face. “Well… take care, darling,” Eames sighed and left the room, lingering just a little at the door.

Arthur tried not to think about what anything he meant, chalking all the strange Eames related things to the drugs running through his system. He couldn’t stop the stupid, dopey grin that spread as the word ‘darling’ warmed him through.

—

It took all of a week for Arthur to get sick of the New Zealand healthcare system. He discharged himself and flew to Toronto.


	13. December 23 — 12:00pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to pinkys_creature_feature for putting up with my whining over the end of this chapter.  
> You can also blame her for how it ends.  
> And also... blame somedrunkpirate for the extra angst in this fic. It's all her fault!

Research was Arthur’s favourite thing in the entire world except when it failed him. No matter how long he spent trying to look into Eames, he still came up with nothing. It was as if the man didn’t exist and Arthur was just about ready to throw his laptop out the window.

Since he’d left New Zealand, he’d been trying to find out anything about Eames and had exhausted every method he could think of. He’d even called in a few favours and all he’d come up with was that Eames was from England, which he would have had to have been dead not to have noticed that. The accent alone was a dead giveaway. Though, he had considered that the accent could have been fake. Eames was a forger. There was every possibility everything about the man was fake.

Research had led Arthur to his hometown, though. He couldn’t figure out why Eames would be in Ottawa. As far as Arthur knew, there weren’t any jobs going on there. But, he figured it would give him an excuse to actually see his parents. He hadn’t seen them since he’d left after he’d woken up in the hospital the first time.

There had been an occasional email from his mom wanting to know when he was going home and Arthur had ignored them to the best of his capabilities. He was nothing if not amazing at procrastinating the really important things.

But now he had a bag full of presents and no real reason not to go home for Christmas. At least he’d get a delicious meal and a few days of peace and quiet while he attempted to sort out what he could in his head.

“Mom, Dad,” he called as he entered the house, toeing off his shoes in the doorway.

No one came to greet him but he could hear a quiet murmur of voices coming from the kitchen so he headed in that direction, freezing in the doorway at the sight that greeted him. He dropped the bag and went for the totem in his pocket, gripping it tightly in his hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Arthur, sweetie,” his mother said, her tone far too cheery for a stranger sitting there drinking tea as though they were a part of the family.

At least Eames had the decency to look chagrined as Arthur stared him down.

Arthur played the last twenty-four hours through his mind, recalling how he got there. Unfortunately, he could remember everything about the horrendous trip home: the twin six-month-old babies crying, the turbulence, the annoyingly smiley flight attendants. He was firmly planted in reality and Eames was sitting at his kitchen table, blatantly looking away from Arthur.

“Finally remembered, have you Ace?” his dad asked, clapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Edward, love.”

“Remembered what?” Arthur asked, looking at each of them in turn.

No one said a thing.

“Remembered what?” he repeated, his voice rising with agitation.

“Should we let you talk?” his mom asked.

Arthur was ready to answer, stating in no uncertain terms that they really did need to talk, when he realised she was actually addressing Eames. He needed to sit down, needed to wake up from whatever nightmare he had somehow walked into. It had to be a dream. He _had_ to be in someone’s dream.

“Might be best,” Eames muttered, dragging Arthur away from his mild panic attack.

Arthur watched silently as his parents left the kitchen, his mom pressing a kiss to his cheek before walking out without a word.

The second they were gone, Arthur’s gaze landed on Eames, a million questions bubbling up inside his chest. He had no idea where to start, what he wanted to know first, but he couldn’t stop the question from bursting out of him.

“Who are you?”

Eames pursed his lips, rubbing his chin as he looked out the window. “Have a seat.”

“Who are you?” Arthur asked, gritting his teeth. He was getting pissed that he had to repeat himself. He wasn’t the most patient people and, after everything he’d been through, he wasn’t willing to wait any longer to get the answers he had been looking for.

“Eames. You know that,” he said, finally focusing on Arthur.

“I really don’t think I do.”

“Arthur, just bloody sit, alright?” Eames kicked out a chair, gesturing for him to do as he’d said.

A part of him wanted to fight being told what to do, but a much larger part of him wanted to obey. It warmed him through that Eames was there, being in control, and that confused the shit out of Arthur.

He sat, though, placing his die on the table in front of him. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a threat of some sort of a peace offering. Either way, as long as he got some answers, Arthur didn’t care which way Eames took it.

“I’m sitting,” he sighed, spreading his hands in a gesture for Eames to start divulging everything he knew.

“What do you want to know?” Eames asked, leaning back in his chair. It was obvious he was trying to feign nonchalance but Arthur could see the tension sitting heavily in him. It was all in the way his shoulders scrunched together. This Eames may have been different from the one Arthur remembered from limbo, but apparently, they still had the same mannerisms.

“What are you doing in my parents' house?” It wasn’t what Arthur actually wanted to ask. He had intended to start with something more along the lines of how he knew Eames but he figured finding out what Eames was doing there drinking tea as though he belonged there was almost the same as figuring out how they knew each other.

“I was invited.”

“Why?”

“Arthur—”

“Don’t say my name like we know each other,” Arthur growled, noticing the flash of hurt that passed over Eames’ face because it was quickly squashed.

“We do,” Eames said, his voice not hinting at whatever he was feeling inside.

“How?”

“That’s a rather long story, darling.”

“I’ve got time,” Arthur replied smoothly, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. He wasn’t going to leave that table until every question he could think of was answered.

“We’ve worked together.”

“And?” Arthur prompted.

“And… Are you sure you wanna do this here?”

“For the love of— If you try to get out of this, I will hunt you down and string you up by your intestines.” Frustration was rising quickly. From all the research Arthur had done, he had discovered that Eames was a slippery man who liked to play games, toy with people’s minds so people would never exactly know what was real or not. Arthur had to be careful with the information he got out of Eames. _If_ he managed to get anything out of him.

“Fine, fine,” Eames breathed, holding his hands up in surrender. “You always were a bloody terror.”

Arthur frowned, tapping a finger against his arm as he watched Eames slowly lower his hands and settle into the chair in an effort to appear calm.

“What happened to me a year ago?”

Eames rolled his neck and closed his eyes, breathing out slowly before looking Arthur straight in the eyes. It was the first time he’d done that and Arthur’s breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat as warmth flowed through him.

“A job you were doing went south.”

Arthur raised a brow, silently urging Eames to continue.

“Only one of your team made it out unscathed. Took weeks to get the details out of him…” Eames rubbed his neck, sighing heavily as though remembering something he wished he could forget. “You were betrayed. It was the chemist—”

“Eliza,” Arthur muttered, vaguely remembering the job. She had been sketchy and Arthur had been wary of working with her but there wasn’t anyone else he could get to do the job on such short notice. He had thought everything would be okay. Apparently, he had been wrong.

“Yes, Eliza. She never made it out of limbo.”

Arthur couldn’t say he was sorry about that but he knew that somewhere there was someone missing Eliza and something in his chest tightened. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from travelling to the Eames that had been in limbo with him.

“You were there.”

Eames nodded.

“You were trying to wake me up.”

Eames nodded again.

“Why?”

Eames shifted in his seat, leaning forward and reaching out to grab Arthur’s hand where it had rested next to his die.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, pulling his hand back. “You know that doesn’t work.”

“Arthur, this isn’t limbo,” Eames insisted, not schooling the pain on his face. “Roll your die, you’ll see.”

Arthur didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but his fingers itched, his heart pounded… He rolled the die, waiting for it to settle and tell him he was in limbo, that it was all a cruel joke.

 _Four_.

“I can’t…” Arthur pushed out of his chair and turned from the table, away from Eames. His mind was whirring, thousands of thoughts clamouring for his focus, but he couldn’t settle on one thing. Despite his die landing on the correct number, he couldn’t stop thinking that it was all fake. Whoever’s dream he was in, they knew what his number was. It was all just a cruel joke meant to make him believe he was in reality.

Warm hands settled on his shoulders and Arthur tried to squirm away, but fingers tightened, holding him in place. “Arthur,” Eames murmured, his voice soft, reassuring. “This is reality. Everything is okay.”

“You were the most important person in limbo. You were my only constant. How do I know you?” Arthur whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I'm your husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me.


	14. December 23 — 1:00pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much pinkys_creature_feature for talking through this whole chapter with me!  
> You can blame what happens at the end on her.

Arthur had barricaded himself in his bedroom, determined to hide from everyone until there was nothing left but a decaying emptiness inside of him.

_ Husband _ .

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, banging his head back against the door. It was the only thing supporting him, the only reason he was still mostly standing. Looking around the room, his skin prickled with a desire to destroy, to tear the place apart just to feel something other than the raw confusion that was eating at him.

How could he be married and have no recollection of it?

What had happened to him?

How had he been dropped into limbo?

Was he still in limbo?

“Arthur,” a tentative voice called through the door.

Arthur clenched his teeth, stepping away from the door as though it was going to help put space between him and Eames. Even a stupid piece of wood wasn’t going to do anything. Eames was still haunting him and Arthur wasn’t entirely convinced he liked it anymore.

There was no escaping him.

There was no escaping what Arthur needed to know.

Arthur walked to the door, reaching for the handle. He could open the door and face it all like the mature adult he was  _ or _ he could hide in his bedroom like a child throwing a tantrum. Neither seemed like good options but the longer he stood there, hand hovering just above the handle, the more hiding away seemed like a totally valid option. He didn’t have to face anything he didn’t want to. He didn’t have to listen—or trust—anything Eames said to him.

But listening might get him that much closer to finding out what happened.

“Tell me,” Arthur said, fingers curling into a fist as it dropped to his side. Whatever he was about to hear, Arthur didn’t want anyone watching him. It was hard enough dealing with everyone’s pity over his memory loss, he didn’t need to see the emotions play out over Eames’ face. He wasn’t sure he could handle that, not without remembering the way Eames had looked when he’d tried to commit suicide. “But that didn’t happen,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair, clutching at the loose curls.

“Tell me everything,” he said more forcefully.

“Can you open the door?”

“No.”

“Oh.” There was a soft thud and the slither of something sliding down the door. “It would be easier if you did, but alright, darling. Whatever you need.”

Arthur wavered, something in Eames’ voice drawing him in. He reached for the handle, fingers wrapping around the cool metal.

“The first time I saw you, I thought you were this uptight prick that needed to let loose,” Eames said, a small bitter laugh following it. “But you were magnificent. A flurry of tailored suits, steady hands, the sharpest wit I’d ever had the pleasure of coming across… I was smitten by the end of the job and you just walked out the door like I was nothing more than another colleague.”

“You wore the most hideous pants,” Arthur blurted, smiling a little at the surprised jostle he heard through the door.

“Purple with a yellow trim on the cuffs.”

“They didn’t even fit you. You were pulling them up the whole time.”

“You offered to buy me a belt… Y-you remember?”

“I— don’t know…” There was something tugging at him, pulling him deeper as though he just needed to wade through a bit more mist to find what he was looking for. “Maybe.” The memory felt real, tasted right as he’d spoken the words. There wasn’t the strange shimmery quality to the memory that limbo seemed to be laced with.

“You barely spoke to me, the next time we worked together,” Eames sighed, shuffling around, making Arthur imagine him getting comfortable against the unforgiving wood. “I took to doodling. Mostly you because I figured if I couldn’t have you, I’d at least have  _ something _ to remember you by.”

“The gum wrappers…”

“It was you then.”

Arthur nodded but quickly realised that Eames couldn’t actually see him since there was a door between them. “Yes.”

“Why’d you take it?”

Arthur wished he could see Eames’ face. He had a feeling he’d be able to make more sense of everything if he could just see the way Eames’ eyes were. They had always been the easiest way to see if he was telling the truth.

Arthur swayed, bracing himself on the door with a heavy thud. Memories flooded his mind. All the times Eames had tried to lie to him; in Venice with the devil mask that had appeared on Arthur’s desk, in Tokyo when they’d finally fallen into bed together and Arthur had left in the middle of the night, in London on their first anniversary when Eames had forgotten all about it.

“—thur?”

In Sydney when they’d found out Mal had killed herself. In Paris when Eames had bought them an apartment. In Mombasa when Eames had said he’d needed time.

Arthur dropped to his knees, resting his head against the cool door.

“Arthur, talk to me.”

“You—” Arthur choked out. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his furiously beating heart. He turned around, slumping against the door and pressing his palms to his eyes hard enough to see stars.

“Arthur, darling, please…”

Arthur swallowed against the lump in his throat, the sting in his eyes, trying to collect himself. His chest ached at the audible anguish from Eames and he wanted to help, to do something to ease Eames’ pain but Arthur couldn’t even handle his own.

He sat up, turning back to face the door but cross-legged. His knees were aching and he was too exhausted to continue whatever fucking act he was putting on for himself. It wasn’t working, anyway.

Arthur pressed his hands flat on the ground, resting on them heavily as he let his head drop between his shoulders. “You wore white at our wedding,” he mumbled, shuffling a bit closer to the door. “You said at least one of us should.” He rested his head against the door, breathing slowly as he recalled the memory. “Only you could have pulled off an entirely white suit.” He slid a hand forward slightly, fingers dipping beneath the jamb. “I thought you’d be blinding but you were radiant.” His heart pounded and he closed his eyes, letting the images play behind his lids. “You shone and I can’t believe I ever tried to talk you out of it…”

There was a gentle flutter of something against his fingers and he jerked back, hissing at the slight sting from whacking them against the door.

“Sorry, sorry,” Eames blurted out. “Arthur…”

“Eames…” Arthur stared at the floor, where his hand had just been and, with his stomach doing somersaults, Arthur carefully slid his hand back, careful of his stinging fingers.

When Eames touched him, Arthur sighed, a sense of calm spreading through him. It was the smallest of touches, barely anything to note, but Arthur felt as though a weight had been lifted from him. Something had been eased, set to rest. But there was still a niggle at the back of his mind, telling him that there was still so much he didn’t know. How did he know what was happening was actually in reality?

“Darling, can we open the door?”

Arthur twitched, pulling his hand back with more care than he had before. “No.”

“Please.”

“No,” Arthur said and stood, rhythmically clenching his fists. “I need to think.”

“We could talk—”

“No,” Arthur bit out, grateful for the door. He knew there would have been an unguarded flash of hurt that crossed Eames’ face at his tone, but he couldn’t help it. All the memories had stirred things up inside him. He needed time.

“Well,” Eames started, clearly trying to compose himself, “you’ll find me when you’re ready to talk again?”

“Yes.”


	15. December 23 - 8:00pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super special shout-out to pinky for holding my hand through this because it has been months in the making! Without her, this fic wouldn't be what it is. You are the best, darling!

_ Married. _

_ Husband. _

_ Eames. _

The three words had been playing on a loop in his head for hours, unable to reconcile themselves with the memories he was sifting through. There were some that still had that strange shimmery quality that identified themselves as limbo, but Arthur wasn’t entirely sure he could trust that the others were real.

How could he believe that Eames had presented the keys to their apartment by placing them inside a red velvet box then wrapping it with paisley paper and sticking it inside another two boxes? Arthur could remember how Eames had cracked a joke about incepting the present but was it real? Was it an honest to goodness real memory he could bank his life on? Or was it all a trick to make him succumb to his deepest desires?

Arthur sucked in a deep breath, holding it until his chest ached and he let it out in one slow exhale. He was trying to fool himself into thinking he was much calmer than he really was. It wasn’t actually working, but the breathing was offering him a rather nice rhythm to sync his panic to. Not that it was helping. The longer he stared at the ceiling, the worse he felt.

His thoughts spun in circles, random memories chasing each other as they tried to piece themselves together in his fractured mind. Every new thought that popped into his head made his whole world shift, rearranging everything he had thought he’d known and creating new definitions. Though, he supposed, they were actually old definitions. Memories that the real Arthur knew already.

As much as he wanted to, Arthur couldn’t spend the rest of the evening on the floor of his room. It was uncomfortable and his ass was starting to fall asleep.

He pushed himself up and stood in the centre of the room, looking at everything that surrounded him. He wanted to recall how he had gotten all of his belongings without having to second-guess the memories. He wanted to know without a doubt that his memories were actually his, not something placed there by someone or his own subconscious. It all felt like it was far too much to ask, though.

Arthur slumped into his desk chair, sighing heavily and tipping his head back. Exhaustion dragged him down, threatening him with a frustratingly empty sleep. Refusing to acknowledge how tired he was, Arthur pulled himself closer to the desk and started organising everything on top of it.

He was reminded of doing the exact same thing, pushing items into a drawer to pretend they didn’t exist. He froze, staring at the top drawer, fingers hovering just above the handle. A part of him wanted to open it, to see if he’d find eight bottle caps, three bookmarks, a poker chip, and a red die…

His red die.

All of the items he remembered had a shimmery quality to them, alerting him to the fact that they weren’t  _ real _ memories but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was an underlying importance to it.

His red die was sitting on the desk, innocuous as it always was. But there had to be something more that he wasn’t thinking of, wasn’t remembering.

Arthur yanked the drawer open, picking up the die and tossing it in without a second thought. He couldn’t trust that it was doing its job of keeping him planted in reality. He couldn’t trust that it hadn’t been compromised somehow. He couldn’t trust that it actually was his totem.

Just as he went to close the drawer, his gaze caught on a red velvet box.

Something about the box called to him, offering up a hint of some memory that was just out of reach.

Arthur picked up the box, the soft velvet sending shivers down his spine. How was it that such a small thing could create this overwhelming feeling inside of him? Even with the sudden feelings, Arthur didn’t open it, just clasped the box in his hand, crushing it into his palm as though he could capture the memory via osmosis.

With his free hand, Arthur reached into the drawer and pulled out the folded piece of paper the box had been sitting on. It had a soft, worn quality to it as paper that had been read a million times tended to have. Underneath the letter was a photograph, his and Eames’ faces staring out at him. Arthur was grinning, cheeks dimpled in pure joy. Eames was staring at Arthur, eyes soft, mouth turning up in the beginnings of a smile. For all the world, it looked like lovestruck wonder.

Maybe everything Eames had said was true.

Arthur set the picture down, his chest tightening as he focused on the piece of paper. It was creased and wrinkled, soft from use. The words were slightly smudged, faded in places where the paper was most worn, but Arthur could still make them out, recognised the loopy scrawl as Eames’.

  _ Darling, Pet, Love, _  
_ I feel like it’s been months since I last had the pleasure of you in my arms. I don’t know how I’ve made it this far without seeing your face in person. As lovely as Skype calls are, there’s something much more satisfying about getting to see your cheeks dimple, your lips twitching when you’re trying to pretend you don’t find me amusing, smelling your particular scent lingering in the bathroom after you’ve showered. In short, I miss you, darling. _  
_ I’ve told Geoff I’m out of the Budapest job. I know what you’re going to say, but I’ve thought this through. Promise. There’s something much more important that I need to do and I was rather hoping I might have your help for it. Would you be willing? If so, meet me in Paris at La Comette on the sixth. That should be plenty of time for you to finish off this job. _  
_ I promise you won’t regret this, _  
_ Eames xx _

Arthur ran a finger along the edge of the letter, the memory of reading this for the first time filling his head. Tony had been furious when Arthur had pulled out early but there was something strange about Eames’ tone in the letter and Arthur had needed to get to him as fast as humanly possible. But, as was typical of Eames, it had been nothing like Arthur had expected. The café had been utterly empty, not a whisper of a voice save for the one crooning over the speakers behind the counter. Eames had been in a corner, waiting for him in a suit Arthur had never seen but could easily tell had been tailored. That alone set Arthur’s internal alarm off. Eames didn’t get clothes tailored. Everything had happened so quickly, after that. Eames had swept Arthur off his feet, his romanticism knowing absolutely no bounds.

“He proposed,” Arthur said, his voice startling him. He’d been caught up in his mind, lost in the memory, not realising life had been continuing on without him. It had been dark for a while but Arthur had forgotten to turn on more lights than just the lamp on his desk and was sitting in the small glow.

He folded the letter back up, slipping it into his trousers’ pocket and pushed away from the desk. Shadows played across the room, taunting Arthur like the memories he couldn’t quite grasp. Everything was hidden, demanding to be illuminated but Arthur couldn’t do it, couldn’t find the switch, wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

Deciding against staying in his room, Arthur escaped to safer ground. He descended the stairs in a steady two-step rhythm. It wasn’t that he was running away from his bedroom, it was more that he needed to distance himself from the overwhelming uncertainty that had threatened to crush him. Did he want to uncover every secret hidden in the depths of his mind? Or did he want to hide behind the luxury of ignorance? There was no answer that would make him happy, he knew that. But the options lingered, reminding him that there was so much more to consider.

“Arthur, sweetheart, can you come in here?”

Arthur froze, the words playing over in his mind. He’d been here before. His fingers curled into his palm, nails digging in as he glanced over his shoulder looking for Eames. But Eames wasn’t there. It was just Arthur and his parents.

It took a concentrated effort for Arthur to remind himself that he only remembered this happening previously because it had been in limbo, that Eames wasn’t there because he was real and wasn’t shadowing Arthur every hour of the day, that everything was actually fine and his parents weren’t going to talk to him about the problem that was his imaginary friend.

“Sure,” he mumbled, resisting the urge to look at someone who wasn’t there, and walked into the living room.

They were both seated on the couch, settled close to one another as they watched Arthur perch opposite them. “We’ve been talking—”

“Shit,” Arthur muttered to himself, the memory of this evening twisting inside him. But there was the shimmery texture covering the whole thing, hinting that it wasn’t real. The edges blurred, shifting into one another, making it near impossible for Arthur to figure out. How was he ever supposed to reclaim his memories when everything blended together?

“Sweetheart, we need to talk about Eames,” his mother said, her voice cutting through his rising panic.

“Eames?”

“Well, yes, Ace. He’s a rather important part of everything.”

Arthur breathed out a heavy sigh. Everything seemed to come back to Eames, no matter where he was. Whether he was in a dream or not, Arthur’s world revolved around Eames. It was rather unsettling, being reminded of his dependency on another person. When Eames had been a figment of his imagination, it hadn’t seemed like the worst thing in the world. But, since Eames was apparently an entity of his own, Arthur wasn’t sure he liked the idea of being so attached to someone else. Especially not since his parents were intent on pointing it out like it was the only thing keeping Arthur tethered to reality.

“We’re just trying to help,” his father said, the words echoing hollowly inside Arthur’s head.

He stood, unable to sit still while his thoughts spun out. Everything was a mess, cluttered so Arthur couldn’t find one coherent memory amidst the cacophony. He knew what made the memories real, what made them false, but it didn’t help when they all overlapped, all clamouring for his attention. He desperately wished there was a way to silence it all but he’d been down that path before, wanting to get rid of the uncertainty and regain control of his life.

Arthur snorted, the memory of his sixteen-year-old self bleeding on the bathroom floor merging with those of a completely well-adjusted boy who was at the top of his class.

Nothing made sense.

“You need to remember, Arthur.”

“I know.” He didn’t turn around, moving to the mantle instead.

“Eames is hurting.”

“I know.” He didn’t want to elaborate, didn’t actually want to get into how much he knew Eames was hurting because that was bound to open things up to a discussion he didn’t want to have. Instead, he let his gaze wander over the knick-knacks his parents had overstuffed the mantle with; tiny blown glass figurines, old Christmas baubles, family photos.

“Arthur please.”

“I know, Mom, I  _ know _ . Don’t you think I understand how much trouble this has all caused?  _ I’ve _ caused? The one thing I truly know is that I’m ruining everything but I can’t stop it. I can’t trust anything in my head.”

“That doesn’t make sense, sweetheart.”

He was going to argue, counter that he knew exactly how ridiculous everything sounded, maybe even admit that there were so many things going on that they had no idea about—namely dreamshare—but the words caught in his throat as his gaze fell on a series of pictures. There were the standard pictures of him; graduating high school, family vacations, reunions. But those weren’t what had piqued his interest.

There were four frames that showcased Arthur and Eames in varying degrees of happiness: Eames on a surfboard with Arthur in the water next to him having clearly fallen off his own; the both of them sprawled over a picnic blanket, fingers linked as Arthur stared off into the distance; cuddling a chocolate labrador puppy.

Arthur picked up the final frame, barely holding it as though if he gripped it any tighter it might shatter. The picture had a warm glow, a single beam of sunlight streaming across the couch where Arthur and Eames were curled around one another. Arthur dragged a finger over Eames’ sleeping face, remembering how they had fallen asleep after eating on the first Thanksgiving they’d spent together as a couple. Arthur had been completely stuffed full of sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce, fit to burst, and had demanded Eames hold him while he groaned from overeating. He hadn’t realised his parents had taken a picture, though.

“Ace?”

Arthur pressed his palm against the glass, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. “I have to go.”


End file.
